Just One Touch
by HidingFromTheSpotlight
Summary: It was all Sherlock's fault. Had he just warned John... but no. He didn't. And now, John was paying the price. If he'd have known something as simple as doing Sherlock's laundry would cause so much chaos, well, he would have left it alone. He could kill Sherlock for this, but of course, he wouldn't. Warning: Contains perversion of a natural process means MPreg! .
1. The Playboy Gene

**HFTS: Well, let's call this an experiment crossed with an apology. It's an experiment because I've never done an MPreg before, and it's an apology to those who were reading A Study in Distraction, which I'm relocating to a different site (one that allows graphic stuff). So, this may or may not end up with a relationship between Sherlock and John. It all depends on how I feel. Hope you enjoy it :)  
****I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to the BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**d(^_^)b**

"John? John?" Sherlock yelled, walking into the lounge room with a slightly panicked pace.

John stared at his flatmate, because it was so out of character for Sherlock to sound, well, frightened. Even if it was just a little bit. So there John sat, in his armchair, wearing his favourite cuddly jumper, a cup of tea on the coffee table and his fingers poised over the keyboard of his laptop, ready to post a blog entry about their latest case, staring as the man came towards him. "Yes?"

"Did you do my laundry?" The private detective asked.

John frowned. "Yeah, so what? I was just being helpful."

Sherlock bit his lip. "You didn't happen to, ahem, remove my bed sheets as well, did you?"

"Yeah." John said slowly, eyebrows rising.

"When you changed my sheets, you didn't see…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to figure out the best way to pose the question.

This alone had John alarmed. Sherlock never had trouble with asking questions, no matter how awkward or probing they might be. "Wait… is this about, er, the stains?"

Sherlock nodded. "You didn't touch them, did you?"

"No! I- I mean, not on purpose." John said sheepishly, avoiding eye contact.

Instantly, Sherlock was in front of him, grabbing his hands and holding them tightly. "Did. Your. Skin. Make. Contact. With. The. Stains? Yes or no, John."

"Yes. It was an accident, though! I didn't-"

"Oh no. Oh this is horrible. This is an absolute catastrophe." Sherlock groaned, sinking onto the sofa. "We're doomed. Both of us."

"Sherlock, it's alright. It's a bit embarrassing but-"

"No it's not! It's not alright! This is horrible! They're going to take my brain apart! I'm going to become a degenerative plebeian!"

"Sherlock! What are you talking about?" John demanded.

"My genes! I told you before not to touch my things because of my genes!" Sherlock was pacing now, too worked up to stay still.

"No, you didn't." John frowned.

"What?"

"You never told me not to touch your things or your jeans."

"Yes I did. I told you very specifically about my condition. Obviously you weren't listening!"

"What condition? You never told me anything of the sort!" John cried, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "You must have been drunker than I thought." He murmured.

"Must have." John agreed in annoyance. "Now, what condition?"

Sherlock bit his lip, moving behind his armchair and staring at John before saying, "My Playboy gene."

"Your… Sorry, what?" John was even more confused than before. He'd never heard of such a thing as… a Playboy gene.

"It's rare. There's only a handful of people who have it, about one in two billion. It's a gene that appears in individuals with particularly valuable attributes, such as my intelligence. But it has a rather… unique side-effect. It's a survival mechanism, really. Darwinism at its finest. But it has a side-effect on my, ahem, sexually linked bodily fluids." Sherlock said.

John blinked. "What?"

"My sperm is, oh, to put it in terms you'd understand, my sperm is contagious. It is highly potent and can impregnate someone, even a man, just by touching their skin! Just one touch. Understand?" Sherlock exclaimed.

"B-but h-how?" John choked out.

"It's built to survive, John. To last as long as possible until it gets a chance at fertilization."

"And I-I…" John stammered.

Sherlock nodded grimly.

"You. SON. OF. A. BITCH!"

**d(^_^)b**

John curled up, hugging his pillow. In the darkness of his room, the blessed quiet, he felt his anger ebb away, to be replaced by something else. Something that curled around his heart, embraced it, and drained away his anger and shock, leaving only a soft warmth.

John clung to that feeling, letting it rub at his aches and pains and soothe him into a doze.

_Pregnant. I'm pregnant. I'm a man… and I'm pregnant. It's impossible. But… it's Sherlock, so I know it's true. So I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant… with Sherlock's baby. Why doesn't that sound as bad as it should?_

**d(^_^)b**

**HFTS: So, what did you think? Is it a good idea? Did you like it? Did you hate it? Are you confused? If so, please tell me. If you have any queries on the, er, mechanics of the situation, leave them in the review section (or PM me) and I'll get Sherlock to explain them in the next chapter. Also, I need help deciding on the gender (and possibly the name) of the future baby, so... Any suggestions? Because otherwise it'll just be a coin toss.****  
**


	2. An Explanation

******Yay! I finally finished chapter two! ^_^ It took forever too! And I really am sorry about that. I've had so much on my plate that writing has been pretty impossible! But I'll try not to leave you hanging like that ever again! (The key word being try). So, enough talk: here it is! Go on! Read!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**Chapter Two:**

"John?" Sherlock whispered, opening the door gently and peering inside.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John mumbled.

"Are you no longer angry?"

"No. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I was… shocked. But I know you're not here to hear my apology, are you? Is there something you wanted to say?"

"I wanted to ask…what should we do?"

John stared at him. "You're asking me?"

"Well… I have been thinking. And researching. My conclusion is that our options are very limited. And seeing as it _is_ your body, I had best tell you our options and let you decide." Sherlock replied, easing into the room and closing the door.

"That's… not like you. Normally, you'd just tell me what I'm going to be doing, even if I didn't want to." John frowned.

Sherlock sighed. "John, do you _want_ me to tell you what to do? Do you want me to take control of this situation and deal with it as I see fit?"

"No."

"And I anticipated that that would be your response. That is why I have researched our options and am willing to present them to you."

John sat up. "How about, instead, you explain this all to me?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath. "I already have!"

"No, you've explained what's happened. I want to know a little more. How long have you had this condition? Why did you say 'they're going to take my brain apart'? Who's going to take your brain apart? Why?"

Sherlock bit his lip and sat on the edge of John's bed. "It is… It is a long, complicated story."

"That's never stopped you before." John countered.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. "Shall I tell it as a bedtime story? Or would you prefer it in the style of the history channel?"

"Seeing as I am in my pyjamas, I think a bedtime story would be, er…"

"Apt?"

"Yeah." John smiled and lay back, gesturing for Sherlock to lie beside him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but lay beside John without complaint. "Are you ready to hear my tale, John?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Once upon a time, not _too_ long ago-"

"You aren't seriously going to tell it to me like that, are you?"

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"I was joking, Sherlock. You don't have to read it to me like that if you don't want to."

"Oh. Okay, John. I suppose it all began when I was just a small child. I remember my mother telling me that I was not to associate with other children. At the time, I thought she was trying to protect me from others. Now, however, I know she was making sure that I did not form close ties to anyone, ensuring that those imaginary ties did not turn into romance and romance into… carnality. All through my childhood, she encouraged me to seek a solitary existence. She told me that others were… unnecessary, that they would not understand me because I was special. I was her 'special, little Sherlock' that she had to protect from the rest of the world."

"So she knew about your condition?"

"I believe she did."

"For how long?"

"Ever since I was born. Or for as long as I can remember, at least. But she did not tell me the truth until I was eighteen."

"Why?"

"Because I was about to leave for university."

"But… wouldn't it have been better to explain the whole thing when you were younger? So you'd have time to, you know, adjust to it?"

"Perhaps. But my mother refused to put my safety and wellbeing into the hands of anyone other than herself. In fact, had I not gone to university, I would still be living with her."

"Sounds… scary."

"Oh yes. My mother is a very intimidating woman. But not as intimidating as the threat delivered to me by the family physician." Sherlock said with a half-smirk that quickly faded. "He warned me that if I were to ever have sex with anyone, I would not only impregnate them, but kill them. He then informed me that the only way to keep me from impregnating someone was to remove the part of my brain that controlled emotions such as desire and lust, as well as a possible castration."

"That's… terrifying. And, um, if they really wanted to stop you from getting someone pregnant, wouldn't a simple vasectomy, um, do the trick?"

"I do not think he was serious about castrating me."

"Oh… good."

Sherlock smirked again. "But yes, his threat did worry me. The part about removing my brain, obviously."

"I doubt it's because you fear the loss of your emotions." John murmured.

Sherlock frowned and rolled on his side. "John, I do have emotions, you know. I am not as robotic as I seem. I have feelings. I just prefer that others not see them."

"So, even if you were in love with someone, you'd never let them know it."

"I said I have emotions, not that I have emotional attachments to others."

"You threw someone out of a window for hurting Mrs Hudson. If that's not an emotional attachment, what is?"

"That was the defence of a valuable asset." Sherlock said shortly, returning to his previous position.

"Uh-huh."

"Moving on. My main reason for fearing any sort of surgery in close proximity to my brain is because most surgeons are either inept, or they can't keep themselves from blabbering about their work. So I decided that abstinence and social isolation were the only ways to ensure my safety."

"Sorry, but… why didn't you just get a vasectomy?" John queried.

"The same reason I don't want anyone operating on my brain. I did say it was for _my_ safety."

"Point taken… Um, so, why exactly are they so worried about you getting someone pregnant? I mean, yeah my mother told me about safe sex and everything but still…"

"Because, there was a possibility that, if I were to fully ejaculate inside my sexual partner, she, or he, would be impregnated by _all_ of my sperm, which would then possibly kill her, or him."

"Kind of like that scene from those Alien movies where the creature lays her eggs inside of someone and then the babies burst out through their stomach?" John asked, his voice somewhat muffled.

"Really, John? You're using a _movie_ as a point of reference?" Sherlock scoffed. "You of all people should know that most movies, especially those concerning extra-terrestrial life forms, are wildly inaccurate. Don't you remember my critique of those Bond movies you-"

"It's easier to understand if it's laid out like a movie." John replied, cutting the Consulting Detective off mid-rant.

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose it is a valid point. But you will have to suffer, I'm afraid, as I refuse to degrade my explanation to a movie."

"Just hurry up already. Why wouldn't a, uh, condom work?"

"There was a chance of failure that was too great to risk."

"But you never thought about the chance your flatmate might change your bed sheets for you?"

"In my defence, I never thought I would have a flatmate, much less one who would change my bed sheets for me." Sherlock replied curtly.

"Point taken." John nodded, rolling on his side to face Sherlock. "So… how exactly does it all work, seeing as I'm a man and all?"

"The sperm is absorbed by the skin, attaches itself to a red blood cell and waits until it arrives in the vicinity of your abdomen. Once it reaches the abdomen, it is moved about from organ to organ, collecting pieces of fat, muscle, tissue and et cetera, which it then uses to create a facsimile of a uterus and makes appropriate attachments that allow it to take in nutrients and grow. At approximately 38-39 weeks, the uterus will start to dissolve and your body will reorganise itself so that the child, and the dissolving uterus, can be expelled. However, this process can be horribly painful and lead to death, making surgery the only favourable option that will allow the child and its host to live."

"So, at about 38 weeks, I'll need to have a caesarean section, or I'll die?"

"If you plan on going through the pregnancy, then yes."

"It'll have to be someone I trust, then. The surgeon, I mean. Someone who won't blab or tell the press." John said thoughtfully.

"You… You are going to have this baby? You are going to keep it?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

"Of course. I could never just, you know, abort it or anything. I mean, it's my child. It's attached to me. A living being that's growing inside of me."

"Like a parasite."

"No. Like a baby." John sat up. "You… don't want to keep the baby?"

"I never said that. I was merely stating an observation. But, what will you tell your friends and family? Let us face it, John, a few more months and it will quickly become noticeable that there is something wrong."

"You could just tell them I've gone away on holiday, and I'll just remain inside and won't let anyone see me." John suggested.

"Do you really believe anyone would ever believe that? They would start to think I had murdered you."

"I suppose it would be a little suspicious. But… I could move to Wales or something."

"No. I refuse to go to Wales."

"I never said you had to come."

"John, you are pregnant with my child. There is no way I am letting you out of my sight."

John cocked an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"I must protect my DNA, John. And you. I mean, where would I be without my blogger?" Sherlock grinned.

John blushed and lay back down. "So… what do we do?"

Sherlock made a face. "I am afraid to say it but… I'm going to need Mycroft's help." He managed to spit out, sitting up and searching his pockets for his phone. "And knowing my _dear_ brother, he will not be at _all_ smug about it." He added sarcastically.

**d(^_^)b**

**So, have I answered all of your questions or just created more? Do their reactions seem plausible? Have I left something out? If so, do tell me.**

**P.S. I doubt the part about the sperm going for a rollercoaster ride on a red blood cell is plausible, but just go with me on this, okay?**


	3. And That's Final

******Hello, dear readers! How are you? Guess what I have for you? It's a shiny NEW CHAPTER! I hope you like it. I wrote it especially for you.**

**Speaking of my dear readers, I must take a moment to thank you all for reviewing and favourite-ing and following and everything else. I love you all! Oh, and for the people who will wonder, Mycroft used his umbrella. You'll know what I mean when you read it.**

**BTW, I've been haunting the kink meme and have so many more stories to write. Fear me, for I am endless (*evil smile*).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or its characters. They belong to the BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, Arthur Conan Doyle and most importantly, not me. I'm just borrowing them, but I always put them back, often in better (or slightly worse, depending on the adventure) condition than when I found them.**

**Chapter Three:**

Mycroft smiled in his usual polite yet slightly predatory way as Sherlock carefully opened the door to let him in. Stepping inside, he inclined his head to a reclining John before turning to face Sherlock, his smile turning slightly more sinister, like a lion with a lamb in his clutches. "Sherlock, how are you? Judging by the phone call, I'd guess not well. Now, what could have possibly been so wrong as to necessitate your calling me?"

"You already know what it is." Sherlock snarled, striding to John's side.

"Oh no, please, _enlighten_ me, Sherlock." Mycroft said, secretly revelling in the chance to really get under his brother's skin.

"Mycroft! Stop playing these stupid power games! You know what this is about!" Sherlock shouted, losing any facsimile of calm.

"Alright, Sherlock, there's no need to get upset. Just tell me what happened." Mycroft said softly, somehow managing to inject an air of amusement into such quiet words.

"Why should-"

"Oh for god's sake!" John burst out. "He got me pregnant!"

"Did he now? Well, well, Sherlock." Mycroft smirked. "May I ask: was it an accident?"

"What do you mean 'was it an accident'? Of course it was an accident!" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft's smirk widened.

"Um, Sherlock… I don't think he's implying the kind of accident you're thinking of." John murmured, shifting slightly from his relaxed position to a more uncomfortable one.

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

John cleared his throat. "You know…how… other children can be…accidents, right?"

Sherlock's frown increased by the slightest fraction before retracting completely. "Oh. Mycroft, what are you trying to say?" He demanded, rounding on his brother.

"Oh, nothing, Sherlock. However you interpret my words is up to you." The grin was no longer veiled, but a fully-fledged smile worthy of the Cheshire cat.

Sherlock glowered at his brother, before turning sharply and strolling towards his violin. "If you must know, _brother_, this… occurrence was not the accident your twisted mind is offering up."

"_My_ twisted mind?"

"It happened because John made an attempt at an act of domesticity."

"Sherlock, that doesn't sound any better than what he said." John told him flatly.

"Oh, I disagree, John. It sounds delightful." Mycroft replied, moving further into the room.

"What Sherlock meant to say is that I was changing his sheets and, uh, came into contact with, well… you can probably figure out what it was."

"I could. But that's not as fun. Why don't you tell me, John? What was it that you came into contact with while changing Sherlock's bed sheets?" Mycroft queried in a patronising manner, throwing Sherlock a look of amusement and just a hint of smug pleasure.

"His… er, uh- his, um…" John trailed off awkwardly, finding no way to phrase it delicately.

"My semen! Sperm! Ejaculate! Is that what you wanted to know? Are you happy now?" Sherlock growled.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "A bit short-tempered today, aren't we?"

Sherlock scowled at his older brother, sitting down with more force than necessary.

"I think it's the result of having to act like a heartless bastard all of the time just so no one gets too close to him." John muttered.

Mycroft ignored the comment, surveying Sherlock with an air of indifference. "Now, Sherlock, what do you suppose we should do about this situation?"

"John has already decided that he wants to keep the baby." Sherlock replied. "But he doesn't want any of his friends or family to know."

"And Sherlock doesn't want to go to Wales." John added.

"But I am going wherever John goes."

Mycroft considered the statements. "Alright." Pulling out his phone, he started to turn away. "I'll have a team sent over to help you pack. If we're quick, we can have the two of you at the Estate in time for supper."

"What?" John frowned.

"No!" Sherlock shot to his feet. "No! Mycroft, I am not going back to that place!"

"Problem?" Mycroft inquired.

"Yes! You know I hate going back there and you know why. I do not want to go. I refuse."

"But what place would be safer to keep a secret than a house built upon them?"

"I. Am. Not. Going." Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth.

"Sorry, but… where aren't we going?" John asked.

"Never mind. We're not going and that's final."

**d(^_^)b**

"Now, now, Sherlock. No need to pout. I did give you the chance to come willingly, after all." Mycroft tutted, turning a page of his newspaper while his brother glared at him. "Oh look, House will be on tonight."

"Mycroft… was it strictly necessary to knock Sherlock out and tie him up?" John queried cautiously.

"It was the only option available, John. I'm doing this for his, and your, benefit, and sometimes, it's best not to indulge his whims."

"So, where exactly are we going?"

"Holmes Manor, our family home. I inherited it after our mother died." Mycroft replied, turning to the financial section. "Hmm, the American dollar shouldn't be that strong. I thought Anthea was- ahem." Mycroft cut himself off with a heavy cough, muttering, "You don't need to know that."

"Um, I- I'm sorry… about your-"

"Don't be. Sherlock and I never really liked her."

"Oh."

"Did you get along with your mother, John?"

"…Yeah."

"But?" Sherlock said, finally breaking his silence.

"But… after Harry-"

"Ah." The Holmes brothers said in unison.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably, casting around for something else to talk about. "You- you've mentioned Mummy, so-"

"Mummy is our stepmother. She insists that we refer to her as that, despite the fact she's only about fifteen years older than Myc- _him_." Sherlock explained with a violent jerk of his head towards his older brother.

"Oh… what about your dad?"

"Our father is also dead. Heart attack five years ago." Mycroft answered.

"So, you're still in contact with your stepmother." John guessed.

"Yes. It seems she was genuinely attached to our father, rather than just with him for his money, and considers us her children. She insists upon regular phone calls to see how we are, sends us presents and whatever other sentimental traditions she can get away with." Sherlock muttered.

"You don't like her?"

"She insists upon sentiment."

"Is she nice?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, she's very friendly. She's probably plotting another of her 'little get-togethers' where she'll try to get me interested in some inane, self-centred, air-headed 'daughter-of-a-friend'. Thankfully I only have to see her every now and then."

"Did I forget to tell you that Mummy has moved into the manor?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock glared at his brother. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? This is why you were so insistent upon my coming. So you wouldn't have to be alone with her." He spat.

"I did no such thing. I am simply doing this out of brotherly concern for you and John. I want the two of you to be safe, and the best place for you to be is where I can keep a close eye on you."

Sherlock snorted in disbelief, turning towards John as much as his bonds would allow. "Tell me about your father, John. Please, I need a distraction."

"Er… well, he was in the army."

"Obviously."

"He was a really nice person. He always helped someone if they needed it. My mum was always telling him off for lending people money and not asking for it back. But he was a good bloke. He liked to laugh… He was very understanding and all." John said quietly.

"He's dead, right?"

"Yeah. He died when I was seven."

"How?"

"He was… run over… by-by a drunk driver."

"Is that why you dislike Harry's alcoholism?"

John remained silent.

"Sherlock, your questions are straying into dangerous territory." Mycroft warned quietly.

"Why? Is it sentiment?"

"No, no, it's fine. It's-" John said, taking a deep breath. "It's all fine."

"What about your mother? Tell me about her." Sherlock demanded.

"Oh look, we're here." Mycroft announced, folding away his paper. "John, if you look out the window there, you should be able to see it."

John glanced out the window, more as a way to escape Sherlock's gaze. His eyes widened as he took in the view of the mansion, all white marble and glass windows, with ivy crawling up its sides and roses inhabiting the front garden. The entire upper floor was completely dark, seemingly lifeless, though a light shone through a downstairs window. A greying man stood by the door like a statue, why, John would have thought him dead were it not for his breath, visible in the frosty air.

The wrought-iron gates swung open soundlessly, almost as if Mycroft had sent them some kind of telepathic command, and the limousine ghosted along the driveway, coming to a rest by the front steps.

"John, would you mind untying Sherlock? I must go make sure your rooms are ready." Mycroft whispered, climbing smoothly out of the car. "Mr Lucas will show you in." He added, inclining his head to the grey man, who gave a short bow in response.

"O-okay." John replied breathlessly, suddenly feeling as though he _really_ shouldn't be here.

Mycroft smiled, sort of, and went inside.

John turned to Sherlock and began to untie the ropes, fumbling slightly.

"It's okay, John. Just keep calm." Sherlock whispered.

"I am calm." John replied.

"No you're not."

"You're right. I'm not. I- I think…" John mumbled, finally undoing the knot.

Sherlock stretched his arms and climbed out of the car. "Come on, John. Things will… they'll work out. Come, I'll show you my old laboratory."

"Not so fast, Master Holmes. Mistress Holmes wishes to speak with you first. Please, follow me." Mr Lucas beckoned.

Sherlock sighed and helped John out of the car. "Alright, let's go see Mummy."

**HFS: So, my lovely, beautiful, wonderful, amazing readers, what do you think? I couldn't help myself with the whole 'Mycroft-knocking-Sherlock-out-with-his-umbrella' thing. I blame an author who put in her (or his, you can never really be sure) disclaimer, "unless I want umbrella shaped bruises". Ever since, I've been wondering what Mycroft might do with that umbrella. Part of me truly hopes there's a gun or some sort of blow dart in it. Anyway, as I said above, I've been having ideas for other fics, which isn't always a good thing... One of the stories I'm thinking of writing involves Sherlock stalking John, which is entirely inspired by a wonderful author who I simply must track down, if only to thank her for her story. And if she (or again, he) is reading this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart! You're wonderful and I love your story!**

**But enough of my blathering, back to the story. Many of you have said you'd like to see them with a baby girl, but part of me wants twins, perhaps a boy and a girl? What do you think? Is it overkill? Should I just stick with the little girl? Also, I'm having an internal debate with myself as to whether or not to make this slightly supernatural/sci-fi (or even more so), and whether John and Sherlock's secret should be revealed, causing them to be hunted down by- ... er, specific people. Anyway, I would love your opinion on the matter.**

**And remember, I love you all (even more if you review)!**

**-HFS**


	4. Mummy

**And finally, the infamous Mummy Holmes! Now, I know my interpretation is a little different (okay, a lot different), but just go with me on this. Plus, this chapter is early because I didn't want to leave you hanging on a precipice. Anyway, thank you to mikesh for the idea about the second baby being a surprise (to Sherlock and John at least). I think I might just use it. I'm still open to suggestions about who the bad guy ('cause there will be a bad guy) could be (As in organisations, small team, single whacko).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or its characters.**

**(P.S. in the next chapter, I may kick off romantic undertones for Sherlock and John :D what do you think?)**

**Chapter Four:**

John's first impression of Mummy Holmes was of a short, petite woman with very long, very _blonde_ hair and the oh-so-coveted Bette Davis eyes. She was youngish (maybe forty or perhaps fifty) and very bubbly. When he and Sherlock had entered the room, she had let out a squeal and flung herself at Sherlock, hugging him so tightly John was sure she had broken three or four of the consultant's ribs. She had insisted he come sit in one of the big, overstuffed armchairs and tell her all about his day, either not noticing, or possibly not caring, how uncomfortable Sherlock was. John thought it was hilarious, and, without thinking, let out a snigger.

"Sherlock… who's this?" Mummy asked, head snapping towards John instantly.

John froze, still grinning, though his eyes had widened in shock.

Sherlock shot John an evil smirk before schooling his expression into an innocent mask that fooled no one sans Mummy. "This is John Watson, Mummy. He's my flatmate… and my best friend."

Mummy's eyes widened comically and her mouth fell open. "You- you made a friend? A… _best_ friend?"

"Yes. He's saved my life, more than once, and he makes sure I eat and sleep and all that other unimportant stuff. He's a doctor, you see. _My_ doctor."

Mummy beamed, jumping to her feet. "Oh this is wonderful! I told you, Sherlock! Remember, I said, 'don't worry, Sherlock. One day you'll find a friend who will love and cherish you, despite your quirks and you'll have mad adventures together like you always dreamed!' I knew it! I knew you'd find someone, Sherlock. Oh you've made a friend! A _best_ friend! And he's a doctor too. Oh this is wonderful! I told you, Sherlock! I told you." She babbled, clapping her small hands in delight.

"You did, didn't you?" Sherlock said lightly, studying his fingernails.

"Yes, I did!" Mummy cried, practically leaping across the room and vigorously shaking John's hand, beaming at him. "Hello, my name is Annalise Holmes, but you can just call me Mummy. Unless that's too presumptuous? You could just call me Annalise, or Anna, if it is. Oh, I'm all a flutter, I must look so silly."

"No, no, it's- it's fine and um… Sorry, but, uh, _you're_ Sherlock and Mycroft's stepmother?"

"Yes, I am." Mummy said proudly. "They are marvellous boys, aren't they? So intelligent. I must say, around them I feel very insignificant and idiotic."

"I think everyone feels that way around them." John replied, smiling tightly.

Mummy nodded enthusiastically, looking at Sherlock with the kind of pride only a mother can manage. "Why don't you come sit down? You can tell me all about what it's like to live with Sherlock. I'm curious to hear about your adventures. Mycroft tells me that you and Sherlock have gotten into a spot of trouble, here and there?" She asked, guiding John by the elbow towards another of the overstuffed armchairs.

"He would, wouldn't he?" Sherlock muttered, lounging ungracefully in his armchair.

"Oh shush, Sherlock. You know your brother is only looking out for you." Mummy chided, offering John a plate of biscuits, which he politely refused. "And feet off the chair, Sherlock. This isn't your bedroom, you know."

Sherlock grumbled and reluctantly moved his feet. "John, get me my phone."

"Where is it?"

"Jacket." Sherlock said.

"Then why don't you get it?"

"Too tired."

John rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "Is it in the right pocket or have you switched it up just to annoy me?"

"I would never do that, John." Sherlock smirked, eyes fluttering shut.

"Alright. What do you want me to do now?" John asked after he had retrieved the device.

"Text Lestrade and tell him I won't be able to help with any cases for at least a week. And tell him I said Anderson is an idiot."

"Sherlock!" Mummy cried, dropping her biscuit as her eyes widened once more.

"What? Is it that stupid 'don't-insult-others-because-it-"

Mummy jumped to her feet once more, grabbing Sherlock by his collar and, remarkably for a woman of her size, hauled him to his feet. "Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me? I'm an understanding woman, I mean, sure those from my generation can be a little difficult when it comes to these sorts of things but I like to think of myself as a _modern_ woman. A woman who understands that people are very different but no less important, who recognises that some ways of thinking are simply outdated due to changing times. But Sherlock, even if you did fear I would turn you away, you should have _told_ me. If you had told me, I wouldn't have made you go to all those mixers and-"

"What are you going on about?" Sherlock asked, completely bewildered.

"Why didn't you tell me you were gay?"

"Wait, no, we're- we're not-" John stammered.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mummy asked again, eyes watering with tears which threatened to spill at any moment.

Sherlock sighed. "Mummy." With great care, he removed her hands from his shirt, guiding her back towards her chair and pulling out a handkerchief for her to wipe her eyes on. "It's not that I was hiding it from you. I just didn't think there was any point to it. I have never planned on becoming involved with anyone. And before you ask, no, John is not my boyfriend. He's my best friend. He's… my only friend. But, Mummy, I didn't keep it from you. I wasn't afraid of what you would think, or what you would say. I just felt it would unnecessary to announce my orientation when I had no plan for it."

Mummy nodded, wiping her eyes daintily. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry for going to pieces on you. I- I feel a right fool."

"It's okay, Mummy. It's a sensitive subject. There's bound to be some sort of emotional turmoil attached." Sherlock said softly.

John was only partially aware of the fact that his mouth was hanging open in a highly unattractive fashion. He certainly wasn't aware that he had dropped Sherlock's (expensive!) phone, due to his fingers going slack from shock. The one thing he was aware of was the fact that he was witness to an event that was as rare as a blue moon; Sherlock had let down his guard, his barrier against the cruelty of the world. Instead of the arrogant, self-assured man with a tongue that could tear you down faster than any machine gun, there was a man who simply wanted to stop his Mummy from crying. This initial shock was finally overridden when what Sherlock had said finally infiltrated John's floundering mind and reconnected him to his senses, jolting him out of his surprise so suddenly that he fell back into Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock glanced over, eyebrow raised. "Alright, John?"

"Fine. Good." John muttered, snatching Sherlock's phone up and checking it over.

"Did I surprise you?" Sherlock smirked.

"…A little, I suppose. But then, it really shouldn't."

"No, it shouldn't."

"John, Sherlock, your rooms are ready, but I think we should probably have a word before you go off to bed." Mycroft announced, closing the heavy doors through which he had strolled before crossing to the window and pulling the curtains shut. "Has Sherlock explained why he and John are here, Mummy?"

"No." Mummy frowned. "Sh-should they have?"

Mycroft turned, taking in Mummy's tearstained face and turning to Sherlock with a stern expression. "Sherlock, have you been making Mummy cry again?"

"It wasn't my fault."

"No. It wasn't, Mycroft. I was just being a little… overemotional. Now what is it that Sherlock has neglected to tell me this time?" Mummy queried.

"You remember the syndrome that afflicts the Holmes family?"

"Yes. That was the reason Sherrinford and I couldn't… Ahem, anyway… what about it?"

"Sherlock has," Mycroft glanced from Sherlock to John before returning his gaze to Mummy, "impregnated John. Accidentally, they both insist."

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft. "Of course it was an accident! John was changing my bed sheets!"

"So… I'm going to be a grandmother?" Mummy beamed.

Sherlock and Mycroft both rolled their eyes. "Yes, Mummy." Sherlock answered.

"I decided it would be safer to keep the two of them here. I've also arranged for John to visit a doctor, a very discreet one, and have a full check up in a couple of weeks, and then in four weeks for him to have an ultrasound. But there's still one thing I must ask; what will you tell everyone?" Mycroft asked, turning to John and Sherlock.

John blinked. "What do you mean?"

"What are you going to tell your family and associates as to how the pair of you came to be in possession of a baby? Adoption? Child of a deceased family member? Left on your doorstep like a stray cat?"

"Definitely not the last one." John replied.

Sherlock pulled his knees up under his chin, much to Mummy's annoyance. "Hmm, we could always tell people the baby belonged to my now deceased sister… or _brother_." He threw Mycroft an evil glare.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. It will also explain any similarities in appearance the baby and I share."

"How are you so sure the baby's going to look like you?"

"I'm the father. Baby's tend to look more like their father so as to prevent the men from claiming the child is not his or attempting to kill the child and his wife on the accusation of adultery."

"Have you thought about names?" Mummy queried.

"No, we haven't quite-"

"How about… Alranthon… or Balcazar, if it's a boy? But if it's a girl, you should name her, Melina or Celestia or-"

"Mummy, please. I think it's a little early to be choosing names." Mycroft said.

"I suppose." Mummy acquiesced.

"So… I'm just going to be here. Doing nothing. For nine months." John said unhappily.

"We'll make sure you have something to do, dear. You and I will certainly be going over the finer points of childrearing." Mummy told him brightly, though her last remark had a touch of the stern 'you-will-do-as-I-say-and-I-shall-not-take-no-for-an-answer' to it.

John sighed. "I suppose I don't have much choice."

"Don't worry, John. I'll bring home cold cases that the pair of us can work on." Sherlock murmured.

"You mean that you'll work on, talking to me occasionally, mostly to tell me either how useless or stupid I am. No thanks."

"John, I've told you before, I value your opinion. It's important to me to have an outside opinion. Haven't I told you how able you are at being a conductor of luminescence?" Sherlock pouted. "And I have never called you useless or stupid."

"Yes, actually you have called me stupid. Twice in the same sentence. But you've probably deleted that part of the conversation by now."

"I never delete anything to do with you."

"Perhaps we should leave them to have their moment." Mycroft muttered to Mummy, who shook her head, obviously enthralled by the idea of her youngest stepson having an actual conversation with another human being.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, throwing a lacy pillow which he managed to dodge with a smooth, quick step to the left.

"Throwing pillows, brother? How childish." Mycroft said. "And I was just considering the idea, seeing as the two of you were so captivated by your moment of domesticity, perhaps you should marry, so as not to denounce the child a bastard?"

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped. "And we all know you're the bastard here."

"So are you." Mycroft retorted in his usual cold manner.

"Boys!" Mummy snapped. "No name calling, please."

"But we are." Sherlock frowned. "Neither of us was born to our 'mother'."

"That's no reason to call yourselves such a thing! I do not want to hear either of you ever calling one another that. Ever." Mummy thundered, eyes alight with a fierce look John couldn't quite place.

"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock and Mycroft sighed in unison.

"Um, sorry but, uh, if- if you weren't born to your mother then…?" John trailed off.

"We were each born to a servant girl. But it's not what you think. Our mother hired them to take her place as child carriers." Sherlock explained.

"Child… carriers?"

"Surrogate mothers. But the first time they attempted it, they weren't careful with their measurements, and the woman died. Mycroft was the only child to survive that particular experiment. The others either didn't receive enough nutrients or oxygen. The woman was too overwhelmed, too tired, her body couldn't take it."

"And your… surrogate mother? What about her?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She lived, I think. Other than that, I think she was just some servant my mother conned into offering her body up to science."

"You… don't care about her?"

"Why should I? She was only in it for the money."

"Okay. So… Mycroft, you were telling us your plans? And why all the secrecy?"

"You mean other than to avoid the scandal it would cause?" Mycroft arched his brow.

"Well, yeah. I mean, Sherlock was, er, worried about people taking his brain apart and everything, but… it feels like there's something more to it. Is there?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You don't need to worry about that, John. It's irrelevant. You should focus on doing what's best for the baby. And that includes getting enough sleep. I'll have Mr Lucas show you to your room, and I'll have Helena, the maid, bring up something for you to eat? Is there anything you'd prefer?"

"The truth?" John replied, frowning at Mycroft.

"Something simple. He doesn't like spicy, he'll only eat it occasionally. How about fish and chips? He likes those." Sherlock suggested.

"I'll see what Charlie can do."

"Hang on, I-" John began to interject but was cut off when Sherlock pulled him to his feet and started pushing him towards the door.

"Come on, John. It's time you went to bed. You've had a stressful day." Sherlock told him, guiding him by his uninjured shoulder.

"But-"

"No, no, John, I insist. You need food and rest."

John sighed and resigned himself to being jostled along, and then passed to Mr Lucas, who led him through a maze of hallways until they reached his room.

"Sleep well, Doctor Watson. If you need anything, simply press the button marked 'help'. Helena will be up shortly with your meal."

"Er, thanks. Goodnight, Mr Lucas."

Mr Lucas bowed once, and departed.

John hesitated in the hallway for a moment, taking a deep breath, preparing himself, just in case. Who knows? They might have a diamond encrusted TV or a gold gilded bed. Pushing the door open, he sighed. Nothing too grand. In fact, it felt… cosy.

_Perfect_, he smiled, quickly undressing and changing into the pyjamas- _his_ pyjamas –on the foot of the bed. He slid into the bed, laying back on the soft, goose feather mattress. _Perhaps I'll just close my eyes for a few seconds_.

**HFS: That's it John, just close your eyes for a few seconds, you'll be completely safe...**

**So, opinions please? Review, if it's not too much trouble, and tell me what you think.**

**And don't forget, dear readers... I LOVE YOU! :D**


	5. Cuddles in the Night

**Hello! So... this chapter is mostly fluff and filler, but you should enjoy it. If you don't, tell me why. I also realised that Sherlock is acting out of character, but don't worry, he'll go back to normal after he has time to collect all of his emotions and shove them back in their little box (until I pull them out again). Anyway, I'd also like to add that at present time, there are about 31 Sherlock related fanfictions on my computer, waiting for me to write them (including the few I've already published). You can imagine how much this is screwing me up because I soooo want to write them, but I want to finish these other stories first. Oh well, I'll get to them sooner or later. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or the characters.**

**P.S. This isn't beta'ed (at all) and I finished this chapter this morning, so I claim responsibility for all mistakes.**

**Chapter Five:**

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as he slipped into his room, the room he had as a child. He was quite satisfied to see that it was still as he'd left it. It wasn't messy (the various filing cabinets and drawers made sure of that), but there wasn't much floor space. He supposed anyone else might call it cosy, but really, it was just cramped, the product of a wild, uncontrollable teenage Sherlock being confined to a small space for long periods of time (he'd been grounded more than once).

He made his way to the dresser, pulled out his pyjamas and put them on. He shivered slightly, finally noticing the chill now that he was out of his scarf and coat. _Hmm, I could slip under the covers and look for a few cold cases on my laptop. I suppose that wouldn't be _too_ boring._

He headed to his bed, but paused just as he was about to throw back the quilt. He stared. John mumbled something in his sleep that sounded suspiciously like 'Sherlock' and rolled over, smiling slightly.

_Why is John- MYCROFT! This must be why he didn't let us go up straight away!_

But what should he do now? Would John mind if he got in the bed? He _could_ go get into one of the guest beds, but this was _his_ room… Besides, he was already in his pyjamas… He doubted John would be mad at him. And he was getting very cold (yes, the great Sherlock Holmes did feel cold every now and then, but only when he stopped to think about it). Deciding that it wasn't that big a deal, he slipped into the bed. Then another thought occurred. _If I turned on my laptop, would I wake John? It probably wouldn't be a good idea if I woke him. Perhaps I should just… What should I do instead?_

John whimpered, clutching at the bed sheets. "N-no. No! I- I- I can't-" He rolled slightly, mouth pulling into a grim line. "No, stop it! Please! I- I didn't mean-"

_A nightmare. What do people normally do when someone's having a nightmare? I must have read some sort of psychological study about nightmares… No. Apparently I haven't. I'll have to do something about that. But… what do I do _now_. John seems… frightened. How do you comfort someone who's frightened when they're asleep? Are you supposed to wake them up? Or is it similar to waking someone who's sleepwalking?_

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. P-please, please I-" John sobbed, curling into himself.

Sherlock bit his lip, staring at his friend in, well, worry. He inched across the bed, trying to let John know that he wasn't alone. Suddenly, John's hand seized the front of his pyjamas and pulled him close, muttering, "K- keep… me… s- stay wi- d-don't leave…"

"I'm here, John. I'll- I'll keep you safe." Sherlock whispered, wrapping his arm around John's waist.

John smiled, snuggling closer and burying his face in Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock allowed himself a small grin, resting his head on top of John's. _Hmm, this must be one of those caring larks John's always going on about. This… isn't that bad._

**d(^_^)b**

John opened his eyes slowly, feeling too warm and happy and comfortable to get up, but his stomach was growling and it was decidedly more insistent than his desire to stay in bed. He was about to sit up when he realised there was something rather heavy lying across him, and, whatever it was, it was breathing. John froze, and in that moment every sense heightened. His nose registered a familiar scent, a slightly chemical smell with a touch of… musk? Maybe even an undertone of spice. The breathing was deep, even. They were asleep then. Craning his neck, he saw pale blue pyjamas, and a single curl of dark hair.

"SHERLOCK!" He shouted, bucking his body to try to throw the other man off. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

Sherlock mumbled something sleepily and rolled away, freeing John.

John sat up, stretching his muscles and glaring at the consulting detective. "Sherlock, what are you doing in my bed?"

"If you haven't noticed, John, it's actually _my_ bed and it's been my bed since I was twelve. You're lucky I let you sleep in it, and if you're going to be this ungrateful, I won't be so kind in future." Sherlock said, looking at John over his shoulder.

"Alright. That I can accept… but why were you laying ON TOP OF ME?"

"You were having a nightmare. When I moved closer, you seemed to be comforted. In fact, _you_ grabbed _my_ pyjama front and pulled me closer to you. But I didn't lie on top of you on purpose."

"Oh really."

"Yes. It is quite common for me to move around when I'm asleep. I'm also inclined to cling to things for warmth."

"Do you videotape yourself when you're sleeping?"

"No. When I was little, I slept in Mycroft's bed and he informed me the next morning."

"Ah." John lay back, snuggling into the pillows. "Wait… Mycroft let you sleep in his bed?"

"I was four. He was going to be leaving for University in a few days and… I suppose he felt sorry for me. I was going to be left in this house, with only my mother and the servants for company." Sherlock answered, getting out of bed and moving to peer out the window. "John, come to take a look at this." He smirked.

"What is it?" John queried, dragging himself up.

"Just look."

John peered out the window, down into the front yard.

DI Lestrade stood next to his car and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he glared at Mycroft, who merely looked amused as he leant against his umbrella, with both facing towards them. Lestrade said something, albeit tersely, and Mycroft shrugged.

"Why's Lestrade here?" John asked.

"He has a case for us. He went to our flat to give it to us, and found no one. All of our stuff was gone and Mrs Hudson had no clue as to where we'd gone, apart from the fact the apartment was still in our name and she had been forwarded enough money to cover ten months rent."

"But how did he know we were here?"

"I gave him a file which, were I and everything in my apartment to suddenly disappear, he was to open and then head to the address listed in the file. I made it very clear that he was not to leave until he had sighted me."

"What scared you so much that you had to have a plan like that?"

Sherlock ignored the question, leaning forward until his nose touched the glass. "Hmm, interesting... I think Mycroft might actually be attracted to Lestrade."

"What?"

"Look at the way Mycroft's standing. Then look at how he's looking at Lestrade. Isn't it obvious?"

At that moment, Mycroft turned, looking pointedly up at their window, and for a moment, John feared he had heard them. Lestrade followed his gaze, and his frown relaxed slightly when he saw them. John waved cheerfully over Sherlock's shoulder and Lestrade waved back, though his mouth was still a grim line. He turned back to Mycroft, who told him something nonchalantly that made his frown reappear and respond rather fiercely. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"I wish we could hear what they're saying." John murmured.

"Mycroft told Lestrade that we were obviously fine and that he, Lestrade, could leave. And Lestrade replied that he wasn't leaving until he was absolutely sure we were alright."

"How-"

"Lip-reading."

Mycroft sighed, gesturing to the door of the mansion, obviously inviting Lestrade inside, adding something on the end that made the DI hesitate.

"Mycroft told him to go inside if it will really ease his nerves, but he added that he won't be following him inside as he has important work to do."

"Is Lestrade coming in?" John asked nervously, smoothing the front of his t-shirt, which he had slept in, hand lingering on his stomach.

"It seems so. You get dressed John, I'll go speak with him." Sherlock instructed, striding out of the room. Sherlock whipped out his phone, typing quickly. _I see you've met my brother. I think he likes you. Have you divorced your wife yet? –SH_

**Lestrade: What?**

_Have you divorced your wife yet? –SH_

**Lestrade: Yes. Why does it matter?**

_He'll be pleased to hear that. –SH_

**Lestrade: Are you alright? You're not hurt?**

_No. But do come in. I'd like to know about this case. –SH_

Entering the main hallway, Sherlock found Lestrade standing awkwardly by the door while a malevolent looking Mycroft practically melted everything in his path. His heated gaze intensified as Sherlock swaggered into view.

"There you are, Gregory. Perfectly fine, as I told you. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be going." And without another word, though he did throw Sherlock another look of barely veiled anger, Mycroft turned on his heel and strode towards the waiting limousine.

Lestrade's eyes darted from Sherlock to Mycroft's retreating back, brow raised.

"So, what's interesting about this case?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, it's a serial killer. I know you like those. It's just, there have only been two bodies so far, but…" The DI trailed off, swallowing a lump in his throat.

"What's so special about these victims?"

"They're children, Sherlock. He's killing children. Little girls are snatched without anyone seeing, and then a few hours later, they're found dead."

"How does he kill them?"

"He poisons them. But before he kills them, he makes them wear frilly, lacy dresses and have a tea party with him. He sits them at the table, pours them 'tea', which is actually warm milk laced with Aeternam Somno. It's a strange drug from India. You take one milligram and it helps you sleep. You take even an iota more than one milligram, you die. It's… a peaceful death; you just fall asleep and never wake up. But if you take a safe dosage, it can also have the added affect of wiping the past twenty-four hours from your memory. But this killer, Sherlock… He gives them toys to play with, gives them colouring books, bathes them, dresses them, puts makeup on them, but he never hurts them. He doesn't sexually abuse them or torture them. He… he treats them like dolls."

"I'll need to see the crime scene and possibly the bodies. When was the first crime committed?"

"Yesterday."

"And the second?"

"Early this morning."

"He's moving very quickly."

"That's why I called you in. If this guy's killing one little girl per day, we're in trouble."

"Sherlock? I'm dressed, are we going?" John called, coming into view.

Sherlock was about to respond, but paused and turned to stare at John, thinking. "Actually… John, why don't you stay here with Mummy? She's dying to have a talk with you, and this case won't be very exciting. It seems like another open and shut domestic."

"Oh. Okay."

Lestrade frowned. "Sherlock, weren't you-"

"Going to get dressed? Yes, yes, I'm going Lestrade. Come, John, I'll help you find Mummy." Sherlock said, walking quickly so that the ex-army doctor had to jog slightly to cat up.

Lestrade, however, was not deterred by Sherlock's brushing off. Letting out a huff of annoyance, he marched after the pair. "Now, hang on, Sherlock. I-"

"Sherlock, dear. You haven't had any breakfast!" Mummy cried, racing out of the dining room.

"I don't need breakfast! It slows down my thought processes." Sherlock scowled.

"But it isn't healthy for you to starve yourself like this." Mummy gasped suddenly, hand flying to her mouth. "Sherlock, that's not what this is about, is it? You're not- you're not anorexic, are you? This isn't a-"

"No, Mummy. I am not anorexic." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "I just don't feel like it. But… if it would please you that much… when I come home, John and I'll have a proper sit down dinner with you… and Mycroft if he's home."

Mummy beamed. "Oh yes, that would be wonderful!"

"In fact… we could even invite Lestrade here to join us." Sherlock added, grinning wickedly.

Lestrade gaped at the display. "Wh- what?"

"Oh, would you, Mr Lestrade? We would be ever so delighted." Mummy gushed, turning to Lestrade.

"Ah, c-call me, um, Greg. But I, uh, don't think I- I could make dinner, I'm very busy and all." Lestrade mumbled, clearing his throat.

"Please? Sherlock so rarely agrees to these sorts of things and I'm sure it would help his attitude towards the idea if he had a few more friendly faces surrounding him."

"Uh… I suppose I could… join you. Er, Sherlock, shouldn't you be getting dressed?"

Sherlock nodded, racing out of sight and returning in three minutes flat, fully dressed. "Let's go, Lestrade. I'll see you later, John. Goodbye, Mummy." And with that, he practically flew out the door, leaving a flustered Lestrade in his wake.

"He seems rather excited considering it's only an 'open and shut domestic'." John murmured.

Lestrade shrugged half-heartedly. "Erm, Mrs Holmes-"

"Anna. If I can call you Greg, you can call me Anna. Or Mummy, either is fine."

"Right. Um, Anna, I'll make sure I bring Sherlock back by… six?"

"Yes, that should be appropriate." Mummy nodded. "Come, John. We'll go sit in the sunroom and have our breakfast there. Then we can chat."

"Goodbye, Greg." John called as he was pulled along by Mummy, who was most definitely stronger than she looked.

"Bye, John, bye, Anna." Greg called back, heading for the door and shaking his head. _My god, they're all just as mad as Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock may just be the only sane one in this house… apart from John, of course._

**HFS: Did I forget to mention I'm also a Mystrade shipper? :P Sorry, had to do it... But don't worry, it won't take over this story! This story is about Sherlock and John (and their baby/babies)!**_  
_


	6. A Tea Party of Death

**Another chapter, hooray! And just so you know, I haven't a clue where I'm going with this. Enjoy the scene my brain randomly seized upon!**

**Disclaimer: No, I do not own Sherlock. I also make no profit from this (but if I did, I'd probably rather well-off, don't you think? Imagine if every fave and follow was, I don't know, five dollars? And every review was fifty. My god, I'd do nothing else but write fanfiction for the rest of my life. But I do that anyway for free... Oh right, this is meant to a disclaimer). Yes, it's true, I do not own Sherlock. Just a very strange imagination.**

**Warning: This chapter may cause distress. It does not contain anything overly graphic, but it features the death of a young child, even though the death wasn't violent and no sexual/physical abuse occurred, it may still be distressing. You have been warned. If you find you cannot handle this sort of situation, scroll down until you see the sad face. The sad face marks the start of the next paragraph.**

Chapter Six:

Sherlock made his way up the pathway towards the crooked house, following Lestrade so closely he was almost stepping on the DI's coattails. Anderson sneered at their (but mostly Sherlock's) presence, but withheld any barbed comments. Sergeant Donovan, however, was undeterred by the severity of the situation and the urgency with which they _needed_ a lead, a solution, something!

"Bringing in the freak already?" She asked.

"We need him, Sally. Even _you_ have to admit that." Lestrade scowled.

Donovan ignored him and turned to Sherlock. "Where's your little pet? Did you eat him or something?"

"I didn't bring John because I knew this crime scene would upset him." Sherlock replied evenly, walking around her.

"Oh, so you actually care how he feels now?" Donovan sneered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously, if John is distressed, it will hinder his ability to assist me. Besides," He added, "he doesn't need more nightmare material."

Donovan's eyebrows rose, as did Lestrade's.

"Lestrade, am I here to solve your case, or am I here for you to gawk at?" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade swallowed his questions and gestured for the consulting detective to follow him. Inside, Sherlock looked over the body, noting her makeup and clothing; dress is hand stitched, made of silk and lace, black, cherry lip gloss, cheap mascara, blush and eye shadow. He ran his hand through her hair; cheap dye job, originally a blonde, hair now black. He peeled back her eyelids and barely managed to hold in a gasp. Her sightless eyes stared back at him, the exact same colour as a certain doctor he knew.

_Why did I suddenly think of him?_

**Maybe it's because you like him. **The Mycroft part of his brain sniggered.

_I do not! John is just my friend!_

**Uh-huh. Do friends regularly dream about what they would do to one another were the other unable to protest?**

"Shut up!" He snapped.

"What did I do this time?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"…You were thinking too loudly." He murmured, turning to the table.

Tea set with yellow and blue flowers, chocolate biscuits- correction, chocolate and orange biscuits, common brand. A yellow bear in a red shirt, a white bunny in red overalls, a large mouse in red shorts and a china doll… who looked exactly like the dead little girl. So, was that supposed to be his calling card? A trail of little girls who looked like dolls?

"Was there a china doll at the first crime scene?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes." Lestrade answered.

"Did it look like the victim?"

"…I- Yeah, yeah. It did."

"Hmm." Sherlock proceeded to crawl under the table, or as much as his lanky frame would allow, to examine the floor.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, privately glad he had sent the others out.

"Nothing." Sherlock huffed, reappearing and moving to examine the windows. "He was thorough."

Lestrade sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I swear I'll be mental before I retire."

"You could always ask Mycroft to get you professional help. He'd certainly get you nothing but the best." Sherlock smirked.

"Would you stop that?" Lestrade barked.

"Stop what?"

"Stop talking about your brother as though he's interested in me!"

"Interesting." Sherlock muttered.

"What's interesting?" Lestrade demanded.

"Well, I'd tell you now, but I'm afraid the rest of your team is standing on the other side of the door, listening intently." Sherlock replied.

Lestrade paled.

"I think that'll do, I've gathered all the relevant data-" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, staring at the body of the young girl. He'd left her eyes open. Her eyes were so much like John's.

Sherlock stumbled back, clearing his throat loudly.

"You right, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, grabbing Sherlock's arm to keep him steady.

"I- I'm fine. Have the case files for this murder and the one that preceded it sent to the Estate. I'll make my own way home." Sherlock said, turning on his heel and striding out of the room so fast he knocked the eavesdroppers flying.

"Sherlock!"

**:'( ... :'(  
**  
Sherlock leant against the alley, breathing heavily. _What is going on? My… I feel…_

**Well, brother, it seems you've started to care.**

_Care?_

**About John, about your child. You've started to care about others.**

"Oh shut up, I do not!" He snapped, massaging his temples.

**You can deny it all you like, but the fact remains that you, Sherlock, are actually caring about another human being, and a being that has yet to truly be classified as a human being. You looked at that little dead girl and saw what could be, who **_**she**_** could have been.**

"Shut up! Just shut up! Get back in your little room and don't come out again!"

"Uh… Sherlock? Are you okay? You're not back on the drugs or anything, are you?" Lestrade asked cautiously.

Sherlock shot to his feet. "What? No, of course not."

"Alright, no need to get upset. It's just, you're acting weird. Well, weirder than usual. Um, is everything alright? At home, between you and John?" Lestrade took a few steps closer.

"Yes. Why wouldn't it be? How did you find me anyway?" Sherlock frowned, straightening his scarf.

"I'm a police officer. These things come naturally to me." Lestrade answered. "So, things are okay?"

Sherlock thought about. Not deeply, but long enough for Lestrade to have left, gotten chips and a soda, and returned without Sherlock's noticing. When Sherlock finally came out of his stupor, Lestrade was sitting on the floor of the alley, eating his chips and playing Angry Birds on his phone.

"No." Sherlock said.

"No?"

"No. Things aren't alright."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

"I doubt you'd be able to help."

"I could try. I'm pretty good at talking to people who are distressed or upset. I mean, not to brag or anything, but I do have a natural ability in talking people out of committing suicide."

"Really."

"I do! When I was fifteen, I talked an older boy out of jumping off of Bedsford Bridge and convinced him life was worth living."

"I'm not going to commit suicide."

"I don't know, you've committed social suicide more than enough for me to worry about you."

Sherlock folded his arms. "Just because I show disdain for social traditions and customs, doesn't mean I've given up on life. I'm a sociopath, Lestrade, that's what I do."

"Fine. But you're also a 'consulting detective', and I need to know you're going to be alright solving this case. One dead child is one too many." Lestrade replied.

"I'll be fine."

"Good. So, what've you got so far?"

"The man meant to kill the children. It wasn't an accidental overdose. He isn't a paedophile, or any variation thereof. He's stolen these children for a specific reason, possibly to send a message. He's also accustomed to violence and breaking the law. He has no empathy for others, especially children, and is meticulous to every little detail. He's been planning this carefully, considered every possibility. You're looking for a man with a military background, but dishonourably discharged. Lives alone, with no family or at least none he's close to." Sherlock rattled off.

"Okay. Anything else?"

"He's size 12 and about six feet tall. And blond."

"Good. That's a start, I suppose." Lestrade looked up from his notepad and noticed that Sherlock once again looked troubled. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?"

"I'm fine. I just need a short moment to collect my thoughts."

"All right, but if you take more than two hours I'm calling an ambulance."

Sherlock scowled at him.

**HFS: Have you guessed who it is? I'll give you two guesses. And I'm not sure if he'll be doing it for an actual reason, or if he was just ordered to do it because you-know-who was bored. Oh well, we'll see what happens.**


	7. An Unfinished Dinner Party

**Well... I think it's needless to say I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. So, here's some... I don't know, the last bit's fluff but I have no idea what the first bit is. Anyway, this one references Sherlock's past drug addiction. It doesn't last long though. Enjoy**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**Chapter Seven:**

"We're late Sherlock." Lestrade growled, climbing out of his car. "It's seven. I said we'd be here by six."

"We wouldn't have been if you hadn't insisted on taking me to the hospital." Sherlock grumbled, following the DI inside.

"You were out of it for about three hours."

"I was in my mind palace!" Sherlock froze, staring down the hallway.

"Sherlock Copernicus Holmes! You, young man, are late for dinner! You should have been here over an hour ago." Mummy snarled, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Er, it was my fault, Anna. I took Sherlock to the hospital and-" Lestrade began, stepping forward in the way a lamb facing a lion might. Though internally he was giggling over Sherlock's middle name. Seriously, _Copernicus_?

Mummy's anger melted away instantly, replaced by frantic worry. "Hospital! What happened? Was Sherlock badly injured? It wasn't a head injury, was it? Oh, my poor boy!" She cried, dragging Sherlock into a tight, almost bruising hug.

"Mummy, I'm fine! Lestrade was just being an idiot." Sherlock said, trying to push her away without much success.

"Oi! Sorry for actually caring about whether or not you were having a stroke!" Lestrade fumed.

"Had you of simply texted John and asked him, you would have found that I was fine!"

Mummy let out a relieved sigh, releasing Sherlock from her grasp before turning to Lestrade and gathering him in a relatively soft hug. "Thank you for looking after him, Greg. It was very kind of you."

"You're welcome." Lestrade murmured awkwardly.

"Come along now, you two. We'd best get to dinner, before we start to feel absolutely ravenous. Come on, come on." Mummy said, leading them down the hallway and into the lavish dining room. "We'll all be sitting down this end." She indicated the end of the table near the window. "This room was supposed to be for dinner parties and such, so it's a little…"

"Big?" Lestrade suggested, feeling a bit overwhelmed as he looked from the fifty-seater mahogany dining table to several gilded chandeliers casting warm candlelight over the room.

"I suppose you could say that." Mummy said thoughtfully. "Anyway, Sherly, you can sit between John and Mycroft. Greg, you can sit between Mycroft and I."

"Don't call me Sherly." Sherlock muttered, moving off to his allocated seat.

Mummy rolled her eyes and lead Lestrade along the table, past a dark-haired, olive skinned woman who was playing with her phone at an alarming speed, and towards Mycroft, who was reading [read: hiding behind] the newspaper.

"Hello, er, Mr Holmes." Lestrade smiled.

"I am not your senior, Detective Inspector, therefore you do not need to refer to me as 'Mr Holmes'." Mycroft replied, lowering the paper by an inch. "You may call me Mycroft."

"Thanks. Then…" Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who was watching him with an annoying smirk. "You can call me Greg."

"Perhaps." Mycroft raised the newspaper once more, leaving Lestrade frowning at a picture of the Prime Minister.

Mummy cleared her throat, patting the seat beside her. Lestrade took the hint.

"Ahem, if you don't mind, I'd like to say a little prayer." Mummy said brightly, looking round at the table before clasping her hands in front of her face and closing her eyes.

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh, slumping down in his seat. "How boring." He murmured.

John sent him a warning look, folding his hands in front of him and saying a little prayer of his own.

"What is the point of God anyway?" Sherlock complained.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, shooting a furtive look at Mummy, who was unperturbed. "Just… be quiet and I'll explain later."

Mummy opened her eyes. "Alright, now that I've had a word to Sherri, we can eat."

"But father's dead, he can't hear you. Why do you bother talking to him?" Sherlock asked in a condescending tone.

Mummy smiled softly. "Reasons you would find insignificant, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned in annoyance, but was kept from further questioning by the arrival of dinner.

"Thank you, Charlie. This smells delightful." Mummy beamed, taking her plate from the stout gentleman, who grinned and twirled his moustache.

"You're welcome, Mistress Holmes. I wish you, your sons, and your guests a pleasant meal." Charlie bowed once to Mummy and departed, closely followed by the rest of the serving crew.

"Such a lovely man." Mummy said, ladling gravy on to her plate.

"Too bad he's cheating on his wife with her sister." Sherlock remarked idly.

Mummy frowned. "Sherlock, it isn't very kind to gossip."

"It isn't gossip, it's fact. I can tell by his cologne and his hair."

"And his wedding ring?" John queried.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Charlie wasn't wearing his wedding ring. He never does."

"Wouldn't that be a sign of an unhappy marriage?"

"True. But not always."

Mummy cleared her throat pointedly. "Boys, it is not polite to talk about the personal lives of others. Let us please move on to a less scandalous topic. Mycroft, paper down. This is a familial dinner, so I'd like to be able to see your face. And the same goes to you, young lady." She said, now addressing Anthea. "What is your name, by the way? Mycroft never seems to mention it."

Anthea tucked away her phone, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before stating, "Camille."

"A pleasure to finally know you by name, Camille. How long have you worked for my son?"

"A while." 'Camille' answered cryptically.

"How long is a while?"

"Less than ten years, but more than three."

"Oh. Do you have any family?"

"None that I'm close to."

Mummy turned to Mycroft, amused. "I see she's been taking lessons from you on how to avoid a question."

"I haven't a clue what you mean, Mummy." Mycroft replied, taking a short sip from his glass of wine.

"Perhaps I should have you teach me. I could certainly use a talent like that."

"I wouldn't think you would."

Mummy turned to Greg. "So, Greg, you're a… Detective?"

"Detective Inspector, actually."

"Interesting. Do you investigate homicides, mostly?"

"Mostly, yes."

"And you let Sherlock help you?"

"Sometimes. It's all up to whether or not Sherlock finds it interesting." Lestrade responded.

"How did you and Sherlock come to meet?"

"Er, it was through work."

"Oh? Was he stickybeaking around a crime scene? Or did he simply break in to wherever it is you keep your casefiles?" Mummy laughed.

Lestrade cleared his throat, darting a look at Sherlock. "Uh, not exactly."

"What do you mean?" Mummy frowned.

"He rescued me from a crack house." Sherlock said.

"What were you doing in a crack house?"

"What do most people do in a crack house?" Sherlock replied idly.

Mummy let out a gasp of horror, knife and fork falling onto the table with a clatter. "What?!"

"Mummy, it isn't impor-"

"The hell it's not important!" Mummy shouted, leaping to her feet. "When? Where? How? And why? Why, Sherlock? Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I was bored." Sherlock replied, leaning on his arm. "But that's the past, Mummy. I'm clean now, so there's no need to-"

"No need to what, Sherlock?! No need to worry? I'm your mother, of course I'm going to worry! The long-term effects of drug use, even if you are clean _now_, alone are enough to worry me 'til my hair turns grey and my skin shrivels like a prune!" Mummy yelled, slamming her hands down upon the table and glaring fiercely at Sherlock. "And what about the ba-" She cut herself off, straightening up, breathing heavily. "Sherlock, I care about you. But how can I when you don't even care about yourself?" Sighing angrily, she turned and marched away.

"Well done, Sherlock." Mycroft murmured, straightening his untouched cutlery. "I had managed to keep her in the dark about that for nearly five years, and you've undone that in less than ten seconds."

Sherlock glowered. "I was being honest. Isn't that what people want?"

"Not on this particular subject." Mycroft replied icily. Turning to 'Camille' he offered her a tight smile, saying, "You may go now, Camille."

'Camille' nodded and got to her feet, not looking up from her phone. "Bye." She muttered.

When the sounds of her heels had fade, Mycroft turned back to Sherlock with a stern look upon his face. "Sherlock, go apologise to Mummy."

"No. I have nothing to apologise for." Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock-"

"Why should she be so upset? Why? It's my body!"

"Because cocaine and other drugs can have negative effects on the body even after use has stopped. And once someone has taken drugs, and become _addicted_ to them, they are liable to relapse! Especially during a stressful or emotional time of their life!" Mycroft shouted.

Lestrade's eyes darted from the enraged Mycroft to a practically seething Sherlock, finally locking eyes with John and silently screaming, '_get me out of here!_'.

John sighed and stood up. "I think I'll walk Lestrade out… and then I'll keep walking for a little while longer. Hopefully, when I've come back, you two will have stopped arguing and Sherlock will have apologised." He announced to no one in particular.

Lestrade managed to stop himself from positively leaping from his seat, but only just. "Well, uh, it was a nice dinner and all. I'll, um, see you later." Following John out, he silently thanked god that he didn't have to deal with this every day. And then he immediately felt guilty because John _did_ have to deal with this every day.

John smiled tightly at Lestrade, not having to lean down too far to peer into Lestrade's car window. "Well, Greg… it was nice to see you. Pity we didn't make it to dessert. It smelt delicious."

"Yeah. Um, are you going to be okay? I mean, those two are bad enough in a _good_ mood."

John raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know what Mycroft's like in a good mood?"

Lestrade frowned. "What are you-"

"Nothing." John grinned, straightening and stepping back. "I'll be fine, Greg. Don't worry. They'll stop fighting soon enough."

"Alright then. I'll see you later."

"Just one thing, Greg. What was that case about? The one from this morning?"

"It… It's a serial killer, John. And… he's killing children." Lestrade sighed.

John's face fell. "What?"

"Sherlock's given me as much information as he can. He's got his little Homeless Network out on the lookout too. We'll get this guy, John." Lestrade said, pretending not to notice how John was unconsciously holding his stomach.

"You make sure you do, Greg." John replied, taking another step back. "Goodbye."

"Bye."

John waited a moment, watching Lestrade drive off. Hearing something shatter inside the house, he decided to go for a nice, _long_walk.

_Mr John Holmes… Mr Sherlock Watson… Mr John Holmes-Watson… Mr John Watson-Holmes… Mr Sherlock Holmes-Watson… Mr Sherlock Watson-Holmes… Hmm, John Holmes. John Holmes-Watson. John Watson-Holmes. John Hamish Holmes. John Hamish Watson-Holmes. John Hamish Holmes-Watson. Sherlock Watson. No. Definitely not. Though John Hamish Watson-Holmes doesn't sound too bad. Hmm, Sherlock Copernicus Watson-Holmes. That sounds rather nice. Wait… Why am I thinking what mine and Sherlock's name would be if we're married? Stupid Mycroft! Why did he have to make that suggestion? Stupid, stupid brain! Stop thinking about it!_

"John?"

John jumped, whirling around with considerable speed and grabbing the nearest part of his attacker. Well, he would have if the man hadn't of moved so damn quickly. Lunging once more, he was grabbed by a pair of large hands.

"John! It's me, Sherlock!"

John looked up in surprise. "Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay. At least I know I don't have to worry about you in a fight." Sherlock grinned.

John rolled his eyes and stepped back. "So… how did things go with Mycroft and, er, Mummy?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, Mycroft's refusing to speak with me until I apologise, I don't know how he can figure that a punishment, and Mummy is in her room and won't let anyone in."

"Are you going to apologise to her?" John queried, sitting back down on the ground.

"Why should I? It's not like I did it specifically to hurt her." Sherlock whined, crossing his arms.

"But you didn't tell her, and I think that's what hurt her most." John whispered, pulling his knees to his chest.

"Why? It had nothing to do with her anyway."

John bit his lip, thinking it over. "Well, she thinks of you as her son. And knowing that you had hurt so badly as to turn to something as dangerous as drugs, it would have hurt her. Emotionally. She's probably upset that you were so troubled, yet decided to suffer on your own."

Sherlock turned to face John slowly, eyebrow raised. "Whoever said I was suffering?"

John shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, everyone has problems. Everyone suffers at some point in their life… it's just, some people choose not to face it, and finds ways of ignoring the pain. Some people choose drugs."

"You're dancing around the question, John. I asked you why you would think _I_ was suffering, not what everyone else does when they're feeling weak."

John sighed, laying back and stretching out on the ground. "I don't know, Sherlock. I barely know anything about you, or your past, so I can't really… You know me so well, just by looking, yet I barely know you. But…" He sighed again, trying to force his thoughts into an alignment that made just a little bit of sense. "You're very different. You aren't motivated the same way as everyone else. And you do have weaknesses, you are human and mortal and everything else that's human, but you're a different take on it."

"How exactly does that explain why Mummy is so upset by my using drugs?"

"Mummy thinks you're… perfect. To put it simply. You're her darling little genius. She doesn't know that you're… not perfect. She's blind to your faults, your weaknesses. It's… it's like when you're just a kid and you believe in Santa and the Tooth fairy and all of that, but then you grow up and find out that they aren't actually real. It can be a crushing disappointment, especially if you _truly believed_ in all of those things."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. He glanced up at the star strewn sky, huffing out a couple of breaths before looking down at John. "So… I should apologise to Mummy because I disappointed her and… broke her heart?"

"Pretty much."

Sherlock let an annoyed grunt, his knees seemingly giving way as he collapsed in a heap beside John.

"Er… Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, glancing at the consulting detective with only minor concern.

"Fine. I just wish I was away from this place." Sherlock mumbled, moving so that his head was resting partly on John's chest.

John blushed, suddenly glad at how dark it was. He fidgeted a moment, choosing to stare up at the sky. "Um… Sherlock."

"Lestrade told you about the case, didn't he?"

"No. Well, yeah, he did." John admitted sheepishly. "But that's not what I wanted to ask."

"Oh, then what was it?"

"Why do you hate it here so much?"

"This place was my prison, John. I was locked kept here for nearly eighteen years of my life. Why would I want to return to it?"

"But you like solitude."

"I like solitude when it is self-imposed. As much as I dislike them, my life would be a lot more boring without other people. And don't you ever tell anyone I said that."

John grinned. "Okay, Sherlock. My lips are sealed."

"Good."

"So, what about this case?"

Sherlock grumbled a bit, snuggling closer to John. "Serial killer. We'll have to wait til he makes a mistake."

"But… he's killing children, Sherlock."

"I know. But there's really nothing I can do until he makes a mistake."

"So you're sure he's a man."

"Yes, I found some slight boot impressions in the grounds outside the house which didn't belong to any of the police officers." Sherlock explained. "The way he performed the killing was methodical, very clean. There was no sexual motivation to. Whatever the killer's message, it has very little to do with his victims."

"Do you think… _he's_ behind it?" John's breath caught in his throat, one hand jumping to clutch at his stomach.

"Probably." Sherlock said in an offhanded way that was by no means comforting.

John lay there, completely silent for a moment, before a thought suddenly struck him. "You- you don't think he kn-"

"No. My condition is one of the better kept secrets of this household. So, unless he has cameras in our flat, I find it highly doubtful. And before you ask, I do actually check for cameras."

"Oh. Okay." John said, letting out a shaky breath.

"It's okay, John. This will all be over in approximately nine months. Well, the awkward part will be over, the difficult part hasn't even started yet."

"That is _so_ reassuring."

"I thought it would be."

"Sarcasm, Sherlock. Learn to recognise it. I'll probably be using it a lot more in the coming months."

"Why?"

"God only knows what my temperament is going to be. I'll probably crave weird foods and be overly emotional and sleepy and annoyed at you."

"So not much change, then?"

"Fuck up."

Sherlock grinned a bit, rolling so that he was on his back, his head resting on John's arm. "So, John, tell me what you know about this solar system you love so much."

John grimaced. "Sherlock-"

"You're always insisting it's important, so obviously you can recall everything you were ever taught about it."

"I remember _most_ of it. I know the constellations."

"Good, start with those."

"You're probably just going to end up deleting it."

"I never delete anything associated to you, John. So, if you teach me about the solar system, I'll remember it. That's what you wanted, right?"

John rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. "Fine, Sherlock. I'll tell you what I know about the solar system."

Sherlock's grin widened.

**And there we go with the caring thing again, Sherlock.**

_Shut up and go away. You're distracting me from my John-time._

**HFTS: ... I REGRET NOTHING!**


	8. Idle Gossip

**A very quick, unbeta-ed, unedited chapter that's mostly filler, but it is quite nice (if I do say so myself). Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Chapter Eight:

John sat back in his seat, letting out a sigh. Once again, Sherlock had gone off to see a crime scene, leaving him to have another talk with Mummy. Not that the talks weren't enjoyable, it's just that, after a while, Mummy started encroaching on sensitive subjects. But even so, this was probably better for him than traipsing around London after a killer leaving a trail of small, fragile bodies- No, best not to think about that.

"More tea, John?" Mummy queried, snapping him out of his reverie.

"No, no, I'm fine." John replied, waving away the maid who appeared at the sudden mention of 'tea'.

"Oh, is it to your liking?"

"Yes, it's lovely. Very nice."

"So, John, you were invalided home from… Afghanistan, was it?"

John nodded quickly. "Er, yes."

"What was your injury?"

"I- I was shot in the shoulder- but I- I also had a limp."

"Why? Surely being shot in the shoulder couldn't damage your leg."

"Er, no, it didn't. It was a psychosomatic limp. It means it was all in my head, though that didn't stop it from hurting. At one point I needed a cane to help me get around." John told her.

"Oh. Does it still affect you?"

"Sometimes. But not as badly as it did. It- it was because of Sherlock that it got better." He admitted.

Mummy beamed. "Did it? Oh that's wonderful. There's something about that boy that's just so very… magical. I know it's silly to say such a thing but it's the only way I can describe him."

"It isn't silly. I suppose it's because he's so unreal that explaining him gets to be a little difficult."

Mummy nodded in agreement. "Yes, I suppose that's it."

"Uh, Mummy, when exactly did you marry Sherlock's father? If you don't mind my asking?"

"That's alright, John. You can ask me anything you like. It isn't a secret after all. And it was when I was thirty-two. Which, if you can't tell, was nearly twenty years ago."

"Oh… I didn't think you were… I mean, um, where was Sherlock in all of this?"

"I think he was still living with his mother. She wouldn't let him coming to the wedding. Mycroft came, though he didn't talk to me much. I hope I'm still around to see him get married. And Sherlock, of course."

"To be honest, Mummy, I really can't see Sherlock getting married. He's just… too, er, free-spirited for that sort of thing." John said delicately.

Mummy sighed, nodding sadly. "Yes, I suppose he is. You know, John, when I saw you with Sherlock, I assumed… well, I must confess that I got rather excited when I saw the way you two were acting towards one another, because I truly thought that the two of you were dating. I was so happy that Sherlock had finally found someone to share his life with, and it was a rather a disappointment to learn the truth."

John coughed awkwardly, trying to rub away the blush creeping across his face. "Well, the truth often is. Disappointing, I mean. I guess that's why so many people like to lie and believe in lies." _Holy shit, that was deep._

"Yes, sad, isn't it? But then again, the truth can be so much more wonderful."

"Sherlock thinks Mycroft fancies Detective Inspector Lestrade." John blurted suddenly. _Why did I say that? Oh well, at least I didn't say it when Mycroft was around. Or tell her that I think I'm falling in love-_

Mummy chuckled. "Yes, I thought so too. He was certainly quiet at the dinner last night. Perhaps we should invite Greg around more often?" She suggested, a sneaky glint in her eye.

John sniggered, imagining the look on Mycroft's face if he could hear them. Or Lestrade's for that matter. "Maybe we could ask him to dinner and conveniently forget to tell Mycroft."

"Oh no, that would be mean." Mummy laughed. "Poor Mycroft would probably get so flustered."

"Now that I would pay to see."

Mummy stopped laughing abruptly, grinning sheepishly at John. "Oh dear, it appears we're gossiping John. I think we'd best move on, otherwise we'll be worse than those ladies who attend my White Glove Society." She said.

John nodded in agreement, though he did giggle once or twice. "Well, er, what do you know about this house? It seems rather… creepy, to me."

"When I first moved here, Sherri liked to tease me about the fact that the house was supposedly haunted. He used to tell me all these spooky stories right before bed. Sometimes I'd be so terrified I'd cuddle up to Sherri, hoping all the ghosts and things wouldn't dare hurt me with him there. If he ever went away, I'd have an impromptu sleepover with the maids. I can't imagine how Mycroft managed to sleep here all alone." Mummy told him.

"Um, I'm sorry for asking but, uh, when did, er, Mr Holmes' first wife die?" John asked. "Because, you say you and Mr Holmes stayed here, but Mycroft said he inherited from his mother and, I'm a little confused."

"Oh, I apologise. I should have been a little clearer. The first Mrs Holmes died over a decade ago, not too long after Sherlock left for University. When she died, she left the place to Mycroft and he invited Sherri and I to live here. He was still working his way up the pecking order, you see, so he needed to keep an apartment close to his work but he didn't want to leave the house standing empty. Sherri lived here for three years, quite happily, but when Mycroft moved back in we decided to get our own little love nest. Mycroft was a bachelor, after all. He wouldn't have wanted his father and stepmother hovering about." Mummy smiled softly, eyes faraway. "I quite enjoyed living here, with Sherrinford. Being here again reminds me of all the times we spent here, pottering around like two aging fools."

"What was he like? How- how did you meet?"

"He was a charming, lovely man. Always had a joke or three up his sleeve. And such wit I had never seen before, nor would it have suited anyone but him. He was just… wonderful. He had Sherlock's height. He used to tower over me and it would make him laugh at how cross I would get whenever I couldn't reach something. I- I miss him quite a lot, you know. He was so lovely and nice and- and…" Mummy sniffled, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. "A- anyway, he and I, we met at work. It was like something you see in the movies- well, not today's movies. It was much more romantic and classic. The first time we met, I walked straight into him. Literally. Coffee and papers went everywhere. I thought I was done for. But he was a gentleman about it. Helped me pick up all the papers, didn't even blame me for ruining his suit. After that, there was always a coffee waiting for me at my desk, whenever I saw him I couldn't help but blush, but he would just grin and wink like it was our little secret. A few months later, I- I got promoted to his personal assistant. He… we spent a lot of time together, just talking. I told him about my life, he told me about his sons. I- I was there for him when he and his wife got divorced, and I helped him move into a new apartment. And, from there we just… I don't know. Somehow, we ended up on a date and he got down on one knee and there was a ring and I kept saying yes and then… it was our wedding day."

"Sounds like quite a story." John grinned. "Definitely movie-worthy."

Mummy let out a light chuckle, then sighed. "Oh, I miss him. He was much too young."

"H- How old was he?"

"Sixty. But still, most live much longer than that. Oh, but this is such a dark subject. Let's talk about nurseries!"

John fixed his smile in place, groaning inwardly. This was going to be a _long_ chat.


	9. Finally

**Sorry for being gone for so long, I kinda hit a mindblock. But anyway, this is the best I could come up with. Sorry if it sucks. I also think I may have fucked myself over with this chapter, because now I'm actually going to have to come up with a murder(s) and everything. Oh well. Review and tell me what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Chapter Nine:

John lay back against the pillows, massaging his expanding stomach. He could barely believe it had been three months since they had arrived at the Holmes Estate. The boredom nearly drove him mad the first month, until Mummy had made the wise decision to show him the library. Even if it wasn't as fun as racing through London after a killer, it kept him distracted. Sadly, he couldn't say as much for Sherlock. He had very quickly solved the case, though he hadn't been able to catch up to the killer (a bus had gotten in the way). Now, he was building an atomic bomb in the basement. Or something like that. John stopped paying attention midway through the lecture/rant. He yawned, eyes slowly closing. The door creaked open and he jerked up, heart racing. "It's only me." Sherlock murmured.

"Oh." John let out a sigh and lay back down. "What happened with… whatever it was you commandeered Mummy's basement for."

"It was contaminated. And if you were attentive, you'd know I was experimenting with burn patterns on different fabrics." Sherlock huffed, sliding into the bed.

"How exactly was it contaminated?"

"There were a few moths involved."

"Are you going to try tomorrow?"

"No. If I'm not careful, Mummy will assume I'm smoking."

"Hmm." John murmured, closing his eyes. "Sherlock, I've been thinking…"

"Haven't hurt yourself, have you?"

John glared. "Do you want me to tell you what I decided or not?"

"Sorry, John. Please, go on."

"I- I've decided that… I love you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And you don't have a problem with this? You aren't repulsed by it?" Sherlock asked softly.

"I suppose I was at first. But I've been thinking about it for quite awhile. And I really do think I love you. I'm just… not sure _how_ I love you. I know it's more than 'just friends', but I'm not sure it's 'lover's love'. Does that sound… stupid?"

"Not really. I should probably applaud your logical approach to it all. And… if you need time to sort it all out, then I shall give it to you."

"Thanks." John paused for a moment. "So… you don't mind, then?"

Sherlock smirked. "Are you asking me whether I reciprocate?"

"Well… yeah."

"I'm not sure what to make of my feelings for you, John."

"Then… I'll give you time to sort it all out, too."

"I don't think it is that simple. I would need some sort of catalyst to cause me to consider whether the feelings are, as you put it, 'lover's love' or just plain affection." Sherlock explained.

"A catalyst."

"Yes. Something that will cause me to react, and at the same time test my feelings for you."

"Like what?"

"It would have to be physical, to cause the necessary reactions."

"Like this?" John leant over and after a moment of hesitation, touched his lips to Sherlock's. It wasn't passionate and deep like in the movies, but soft and delicate. After a few seconds, John lay back, blushing just a little bit.

Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut, his breathing regular, yet his heart was beating at an off-kilter pace.

"So… how do you feel?" John asked cautiously.

"I'm not sure. Perhaps repeating the experiment could help." Sherlock mused.

John rolled his eyes. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"John?" Sherlock sat up, peering at the man beside him, who did indeed appear to be asleep. "John, I was kidding."

John snuffled a bit in his 'sleep', rolling onto his side.

"Alright, fine!" Sherlock huffed. Slumping into his pillows, he mumbled, "I love you, too, John."

John grinned. "I know, Sherlock, I know."

**d(^_^)b**

John was freezing, the icy air stinging his face, caressing his arms and legs. His entire body seemed infested with it, like someone had scooped out everything inside and replaced it with Antarctica. He shivered, curling up as tightly as he could, wondering _why_ he was so cold.

_Sherlock's probably knicked the covers again_, he mused, reaching out a tentative hand and fumbling round for the consulting detective, hoping he could pry just a sliver of bed sheet from the man. But his hand met nothing but a merciless metal floor. His eyes flew open, that unrepressed soldier's instinct kicking in. He launched himself upwards into a standing position, scanning the area for any signs of life.

"Settle down, Johnny boy. No one's going to hurt you… so long as you cooperate." A disembodied voice sang. "Now, how about you say something, nice and loud, so we can send it to Sherlock, hmm? A little message so he knows you're alive. That'll keep him trying, don't you think?" John glanced up and found the voice's source, a small speaker fixed above a heavy steel door.

"If you think you can scare me, Moriarty, then you're fucking crazy!" John yelled.

"That'll do, Johnny boy. I'll send it to Sherlock, gift-wrapped in a nice little murder. Or am I repeating myself? Oh well, it's really the only way to get his attention, isn't it?" Moriarty laughed. "Until later, Doctor Watson."

John growled, striding over to the door. "Oi! Come back here!" No answer, not that he really expected one. He glared up at the speaker before sighing. _There has to be a way out around here somewhere._


	10. Moriarty, Line Three

**Late chapter (sorry!), but finally wrote it. Unbetaed and I finished it late last night so there are bound to be errors. Tell me and I'll fix them later.**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK.**

Chapter Ten:

Sherlock sat up, suddenly aware of how empty the bed beside him was. He shivered, an early-morning breeze caressing his cheek, and looked round to find the window wide open. He frowned and got to his feet, padding over to it. _Why would the window be open? Perhaps John was too warm… But where is he now?_

He was about to shut the window when something in the garden below caught his eye. It glinted in the fading moonlight, nestled between a cluster of Mister Lincolns and Just Joeys. Sherlock turned away, hurrying out of the room and down the stairs. He was about to burst out the door when a dreadful scent sprang upon him, tearing any matter of a glitter in the bushes from his mind. Blood. Turning around, his heart, strangely light in the last few weeks, sank. Charlie sat slumped back in his chair at the dining table, the rosters for next week's meals table laid out in front of him, not that they would ever be used. His knives were spread out to the side, freshly sharpened. But only one among the lot stood out; the one that was currently lodged in the junction between his throat and his chest. Sherlock took a deep breath, detaching himself from all emotions that could prove hazardous to his ability as a detective. Carefully, he crept forwards, noting the blood splatter and anything else of importance. From the way everything was, he could tell Charlie had been surprised attacked from behind. The killer must have picked up the knife and then immediately implanted it in Charlie's neck. He never had a chance to defend himself. A sudden gasp drew his attention, and he turned to see Helena standing shell-shocked in the doorway.

"I'm sorry to say that it appears Charlie has been murdered. Call the police. By the way, you haven't seen John around, have you?" He asked nonchalantly.

"No." Helena whispered faintly, knees giving way.

Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh, crossing the room towards her. With a strong grip, he pulled the stunned maid to her feet and pushed her out of the room. "Tell the others not to come this way. If you can manage it. And call the police." He told her, heading back to the corpse. Helena let out a muffled squeak, scurrying away down the hall. He leant in, peering at Charlie as though he were nothing more than an experiment. He catalogued every detail, until something suddenly struck him. Not literally, of course, but a sudden thought. John was nowhere to be found, their bedroom window was open and Charlie had been stabbed from _behind_. And then the glimmer in the garden came back at lightning speed, and Sherlock was up and off without a care for the crime scene or anything else. His hands were numb as he fumbled for it, already knowing what it was, and he could have yelled in frustration when he dropped it. But finally, after a frantic scrambling, he snatched it up, turning it over and feeling the despair flow through every pour of his body. Clutched desperately in his long fingers was a watch, simple yet stylish, a birthday present (picked up by one of Mycroft's minions just in time). Footsteps approached, the gravel beneath them making it impossible for the owner to be unheard. Sherlock glanced up, finding Mycroft before him, a thunderous look upon his face. "Sherlock," he snapped. "What is going on? Why is the chef dead?"

"Someone's taken John." Sherlock said, turning back to the scene and looking it over feverishly. "I have to find him."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked.

"It's his watch." Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft tensed, almost imperceptibly, whipping out his phone. "I'll call Lestrade."

"No, we can't." Sherlock protested. "It's undoubtable that he's being held by Moriarty, and if we call the police, Moriarty may release information about our… condition. Or about John being pregnant. I can't let him do that; John wouldn't like it if the entire world was intruding upon his private life."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So I'll call Lestrade and make sure he's discreet."

"No, I have to do this. I have to find John on my own." Sherlock murmured.

"No one ever said you had to do it alone." Mycroft replied, already half way through dialling. "Hello, Gregory, it's Mycroft Holmes. My apologies for waking you but- You were already awake? No harm done then. I'm sorry but Sherlock is kind of occupied at the moment and- No, not even for a nine. What? Y- Yes, I'll tell him. No let me. Goodbye." Mycroft glanced to where Sherlock had frozen in place, clearing his throat.

"They found a body." Sherlock guessed before Mycroft uttered a syllable.

"Yes. It isn't John, but they say there's a message for you. I believe you were right about this being the work of Moriarty."

Sherlock closed his eyes, gathering his nerves, his panic, and shoving it all into the back of his mind, taking deep, measured breaths. "Right. I'll need a car to take me there. Preferably with a fast and capable driver."

"I'll get Abdul to take you. Be ready to leave in ten minutes."

"While I'm gone, handle Charlie's death, and see if you can find any surveillance footage that could help us." Sherlock instructed, striding back towards the house. "If we're lucky, they may have been stupid enough to drive through a fuel station or an intersection."

"Sherlock! Mycroft!" Mummy cried, racing out of the house and straight into her stepsons. She threw her arms around the both of them, sobbing. "Oh thank- thank goodness! I- I thought- And Charlie he's- You're okay!"

"Yes, Mummy, we're fine." Sherlock sighed, extracting himself from her embrace. "But I can't stay, someone's taken John and I must go see Lestrade."

Mummy let out a startled gasp, tightening her grip on a very uncomfortable Mycroft. "What? We- We have to call the police! We have to get out a search party!"

"Mummy, we can't. Sherlock and I have a very good idea of who has taken him, and if we were to contact the police would most likely tell the entire world about our… circumstances." Mycroft explained, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Sherlock does not want that to happen because he knows it will upset John."

Mummy nodded quickly, releasing Mycroft from her grasp. "Oh, but what about Charlie?"

"The police are on their way, but we must make no mention of John. Not while he's still missing. We have to let Sherlock handle it."

"O- Okay. I'll do my best." Mummy said, straightening her hair. "But I refuse to meet them in my nightgown." She added, marching back into the house.

Sherlock rushed into the crime scene, noticeably lacking his usual excitement. A few people were actually startled by his solemnity, most notably Donovan. Sherlock paid no attention to anyone else, storming up a set of narrow steps and into a small library. And he very nearly froze at the sight before him. Had he not had an excellent hold on his composure, he would have thrown up or possibly fainted. As it was, he was unable to hold in the gasp and quickly drew attention from a few Crime Investigators and Lestrade. He pushed aside any personal thoughts and instead drew up a mental catalogue of everything within the room, going over it inch by inch. And he did it all, cursing himself internally, with more care than he had ever shown before. "You said there was some sort of message for me?" He murmured after he was done.

"Uh, yeah. Ahem. It's this way." Lestrade motioned for Sherlock to follow him. They moved to a room across the hall.

Sherlock stepped inside, eyes darting around the room. The phrase '_guess what I'll do to John if you don't find him?_' was gouged into every flat surface. He moved to a table, the only one in the room, where a phone sat innocently. It was John's. Sherlock paused, hand hovering over the device.

"What does it mean, Sherlock? The message?" Lestrade asked quietly.

Sherlock ignored him, snatching up the phone and turning it over in his hands. There were three voice messages: one from Mrs Hudson, one from Harry, and one from an unknown caller. He quickly dismissed the first two, zeroing in on the anonymous message.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's been a while since our last game, hasn't it?" Moriarty purred. "I assume you got my first message. Nice, isn't it? My little pet has been so very busy getting it ready for you. I ought to reward him somehow, shouldn't I? After all, he went to all the trouble of finding a woman who looked just like… well, you saw how much she resembled him. And then he cut out her baby. He was delicate, precise. Her screams were delightful. But you don't want to hear about that, do you? You want to hear from your little lover boy. I'll put him on."

"If you think you can scare me, Moriarty, then you're fucking crazy!" John yelled, before he was quickly cut off.

"Brave one, isn't he?" Moriarty remarked drily. "Oh, and just thought you'd like to know: he's unharmed. If you want him to stay that way, you'll have to find him. There are, of course, rules. They're very simple, really, no police, no Mycroft, and you have to find him within fifty-three hours. If you don't, well, I'll let Sebbie play with him."

Sherlock put the phone down. "Was there anything else?"

Lestrade cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Was there anything else?" Sherlock asked again, sharper and with more aggression.

Lestrade sighed, pulling an evidence bag from his pocket. He thrust it at Sherlock, who snatched it up and studied the card inside. "One of the others Googled the address, but nothing came up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously you need a second opinion." And before Lestrade could stop him, he whirled away, evidence slipped into his pocket.


	11. What's Behind Door Number Two?

**A/N: I have returned, my children, and I bring you updates. But be warned, your struggle is not over yet. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... I'll see myself out.**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK.**

Chapter Eleven:

The card was printed on low quality paper with a cheap printer. The ink was store bought. It was fake of course. All of the details were false. The only thing worth noticing was the line, "it began with an ending as everything does," and though he was intelligent, obscure riddles were not Sherlock's forte. He quickly listed everything that fit those parameters. It was a long list. In order to narrow it down, he removed anything that wasn't solidly linked to himself and Moriarty. That left a few possibilities. It could have been the death of Carl Powers, which was more than likely Moriarty's first murder. It could also be tied to the Cabbie's death, or the murders he had committed. It might even be a reference to Sherlock's first case. It was still a large area to cover, but it was manageable enough. The question was: which should he try first? Perhaps if he sorted it into a timeline? Logically, that would point to the death of Carl Powers and the swimming pool where he died. And where Sherlock had had his first face-to-face encounter with Moriarty. But if he was wrong, it would be time wasted. _Stop. Think. In a linear timeline, the pool is the obvious choice. Do not allow your attachments to muddy the waters. You must remain calm._

Right. The pool. A logical start.

**-d(^_^)b-**

There was nothing at the pool. Not even a speck of dirt. The Roland Kerr Further Education College was the same. Now he was up to the final victim of Jeff Hope, the moment he had "officially" joined in on the investigation.

_Please let it be this one. Please._

The house was still abandoned, the fresh aroma of death scaring away potential buyers. Sherlock made his way inside, ignoring the clattering of memories that rose to the forefront of his mind. At the foot of the stairs, he paused. A jingle of metal fell softly to him, followed by frightened whimpers. His heart pounded and he was halfway up the stairs before he realised that it couldn't be that easy. Slowly, he eased his way into the room where the Pink Lady had been found. The woman, tied to the chair with an overzealous amount of chains, began to scream, though it was muffled by the gag. Sherlock held up his hands placatingly, edging across the room and undoing the gag.

"Please, please, help me. I- I don't know wh- what you want, but- but I'll give you anything I can! Just please don't kill me!" The woman begged.

"I'm not here to hurt you, I-"

"We'll see about that, Sherlock." Moriarty sang.

Sherlock whipped around, expecting his worst enemy, but only finding a speaker attached to a television screen. He frowned, glancing to the woman before stepping forward.

"Right there's fine." Moriarty informed him, the screen flickering in and out. "Now, you have a little choice to make. You know that woman behind you? You're going to decide whether she walks out of here alive, or not at all."

The woman began to sob softly. Sherlock ignored her, eyes glued to Moriarty's smug smile. "What do you mean?"

Moriarty's grin widened. "Well, you have two options. One: you let the woman live, and she will give you the name of the next hostage for you to find. There are five of them, and each one holds a clue to the location of your beloved blogger. However, letting her live will cost you one hour of your time, and if she goes to the police, I'll kill John instantly. But before you decide, why don't you look behind door number two, hmm? If you kill her, I'll _give_ you the name of the next hostage, even their location, and you won't lose your hour. But, if you kill her, you won't get the clue to tell you where John is. Of course, you only need three out of five to figure it out. Here's the thing, I won't let you anywhere near him until you find all of the hostages. So… what to do, what to do?"

Sherlock growled. Of course, this was all just another game for Moriarty. And he had no choice but to play along. He had to weigh the options, he had to go for the choice that was most to his advantage. But something sharp and persistent tugged at his chest, right at heart level, and a voice that reminded him of John's whispered, '_You can't kill innocent people, Sherlock, that isn't who you are. You're good. You have something that matters to you, you have someone who matters to you. And you know they would be disappointed if you became a monster to save them. You know what's right.'_

Turning, Sherlock looked the woman in the eyes. She let out a squeak of terror, her mascara running down her face and mingling with her tears. She was so afraid of him, of what he could do to her. With careful deliberation, Sherlock faced the TV. "I won't kill her."

Moriarty pouted, and the video began to lag, his lips out of sync with his voice. "Boring. The key to her chains is tucked above the door. See you later, Sherlock." The screen went dark, and the speaker crackled, quickly falling silent.

Sherlock retrieved the key as the woman blubbered her thanks, doubled over as far as her bindings would allow. When Sherlock released her, she nearly collapsed. "I need you to tell me what you know. And I would prefer it if you did it quickly." He whispered, sitting her back on the chair.

"Um- Um, I- I remember being in bed, then when I woke up, I was in- in a truck, I think. They'd tied me up, and told me to remember the name, um, Gerald Smith from Cardiff, minor claims lawyer. And- and then they- they made me get a tattoo. They held me down and- and put something on my arm." She gestured weakly to the limb in question, and Sherlock gently rolled up her sleeve.

"The Seeker Finds." He read aloud. "The ink's still wet."

"I- I don't know when they did it. I- I passed out. I think they- they- they…" Her eyes began to roll, and she looked to be on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Hey, hey! I need you to stay awake. I'm going to put you in a cab, and send you to a hospital. But you can't tell them what happened. Not yet."

"Wh- Why not?"

"Because they are holding my friend captive. If you go to the police, they'll kill him. And they'll probably kill you and your family just for the fun of it. Do you understand?"

"But- but…"

"I'll take care of them. I just need to find my friend first. Please, won't you help me?"

"All ri- I- O- Okay." The woman murmured, before drooping into his arms. He tried half-heartedly to rouse her, but it was no use. With a sigh, he heaved himself, and the unconscious woman, up and struggled down the stairs. Puffing slightly, he laid her on the sidewalk and dialled for an ambulance, simultaneously attempting to figure out the odd phrase now emblazoned on the unconscious woman's arm.


	12. Enter the Madman

**A/N: Hello! I've brought you another chapter! I hope you enjoy it, and I apologise in advance for any errors.**

**On a side note, for those of you who have read You Fascinate Me, I'd like you to know I am working on a small epilogue that will lead into the sequel (though I won't post it until I have the first three chapters written down), and I will use that to announce the release of the sequel. It's still in the works though so don't go getting your hopes up.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. At all. Not even a little tiny bit.**

**Warning: Casual mentions of murder/gore. Nothing graphic, though I will say proceed with caution.**

**Chapter Twelve:**

_45 Hours to Go_

Gerald Smith was an easy enough man to find. He had, thankfully, moved away from Cardiff and to London, supposedly for the intention of being closer to his children, so distance wasn't an issue, and it was a short time before Sherlock was knocking at his door. The door opened to a grey-haired woman, Smith's wife Lenora, and she eyed him warily. "May I help you?" She asked, fear evident in her croaky old voice.

"I'm looking for Gerald Smith." Sherlock said.

"I- I'm sorry, but my-my husband isn't in at the moment."

"Where is he?"

"Uh, he's gone on a trip."

"And left you behind?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. "Mrs Smith, my name is Sherlock Holmes and your husband is missing. I'm here to help you find him."

Mrs Smith froze, looking about frantically. "I'm sorry. They- they said not to go to the police or they- they'll-"

"I'm not the police. Now, please Mrs Smith, let me in. I need you to tell me what you know, quickly."

Mrs Smith gulped, standing aside to allow him to slip in, and closed the door resolutely. Taking a few shaky breaths, she turned to face him.

"When your husband was taken, did they leave something for you? Instructions or something like that?" Sherlock inquired, glancing around at the house.

"A video. It's in the DVD player… It was playing when I woke up." Mrs Smith told him, indicating with her hand.

"Must be a live feed." Sherlock murmured to himself, stepping into the living room. Glancing at the TV, he found it blank. "Excuse me, but-"

There was a loud crack and Sherlock stumbled forward dazedly, before being grabbed around the middle and dragged backwards. Struggling was useless, as his captor was disgustingly muscular and his grip on Sherlock was unbreakable. Further behind him, a door was slid open, and someone came quickly towards him. A dark hood was pulled over his head and securely tied, blocking out all light. Sherlock grunted as he was dropped to the hard, wooden floor, and his arms were roughly bound behind him. A rope was tied around his arms and his legs to further immobilise him. He was laid on his stomach and forced to stay still by a heavy boot on his back.

"Well, well, Sherlock, you're doing well." Moriarty said, walking into the room as though he owned it. "No, no, don't get up. I'm quite enjoying you where you are now. I'm sure you're surprised. And perhaps a little worried for poor Johnnie. Don't be. The game's on pause. It was the minute you stepped through the door, so you don't have to fret about the minute's ticking away. We're gonna go on a little drive now. It's the next move in the game. Come on." Moriarty turned, strolling out of the living room.

Mrs Smith cowered by the stairs, shaking. She squeaked when Moriarty put a hand on her shoulder, and might have fainted when he pulled her closely to his side, had he not been holding her up. "Breathe a word of this to anyone, and I'll skin your husband alive." He breathed, letting her go and watching her fall to the ground in a quivering heap. "Oh my, someone call an ambulance. Grandma's fallen and can't get up." He added in a sneer, stepping over her and out the door.

Sherlock was pulled to his feet, thrown over one of the goon's shoulder, and carried out of the house and thrown in the back of a van. As its engine turned over and hummed into life, Sherlock lay still, devising a plan. He hoped they would take him to John but knew it was unlikely. They were probably going to torture him, or debilitate him to make it harder to find John. His heart sat low in his chest, cold and hopeless. But there wasn't anything he could do to change that, except remind himself that emotions were a luxury he couldn't afford right now.

**d(^_^)b**

John sat in despair, his body curled as tightly as it could manage. He had searched the entire cell and found nothing. It was perfectly sealed, and new enough that there was no wear that he could chip away at. He was shivering worse than ever, and his body was slowly becoming numb. If they kept him like this any longer, he would die. The door to his fridge-like prison cell slid open, though John couldn't be bothered to check who it was. Something soft was thrown over him, and something heavier was set down beside him. One pair of footsteps, light and careful but not cautious, entered the room, and another pair, the first ones, retreated. The door was closed. John pulled the blanket, because that's what the soft thing was, tighter around him and sat up, only to still immediately. Moriarty sat on one of the benches at the side of the cell, smiling at John in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes. A box was at his feet, and when he saw John looking, Moriarty reached into it and pulled out a thermos.

"What are you doing?" John asked suspiciously, ignoring the quiver in his tone.

"It's warm milk and honey." Moriarty replied, pouring it into a cup and offering it to him. "For you."

"I don't want it." John said stubbornly.

"Now, now, Johnny, we both know poisoning isn't my style." Moriarty tutted, placing the cup at John's feet.

"You're too insane to give a damn about style."

"Insane? That's debatable."

"You kill people because you're bored. How is that not insane?"

"Other people kill because they're hungry or scared, why can't I kill people because I'm bored?"

John frowned, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"Why don't you give it a try? I promise I'll listen." Moriarty said, voice straying dangerously close to full-on singing.

"Killing someone isn't just something you do. It's- When you end a life, you've completely stopped someone from living. They won't age, ever. They won't laugh, or grow, or get married, or have kids. They aren't anything but a memory, but they could have been so much more."

"Then what's the difference between, say, me killing a man rather than him dying in a hospital of lung cancer?" Moriarty queried.

"Disease is a part of life. You can fight it, but it can still win. It's a natural process, when it begins naturally. And sometimes you bring it on yourself when you neglect your basic needs, or indulge in too much of a bad thing. No one deserves to be murdered." John said quietly. He didn't know what game Moriarty was playing, but it was interesting to watch.

"Not even me?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow at John, clasping his hands in front of him.

"You're a psychopath. You kill people for fun. But even you don't deserve a death of violence, to be murdered. That would just be sinking to your level."

"Really? You'd have me arrested, tried, and rotting in a high security prison rather than kill me? It'd be quicker, and I'm sure no one would harshly judge your actions."

"No. Justice isn't supposed to be given out by one person."

"What about the cabbie?"

"That was different."

"Oh? Enlighten me."

"Sherlock was in danger, immediate danger, from that man. If I hadn't killed him, he would have killed Sherlock. I had to stop him."

"What if I were to put Sherlock in immediate danger? Would you kill me then?" Moriarty leant forward, almost eager.

"Not if it's what you wanted. I'd just injure you enough to stop you." John answered without even a pause.

Moriarty sat back, a frightening smile tainting his lips. "No wonder Sherlock keeps you around. You're so… funny."

John glared, pulling the blanket closer around him. "Am I?"

"Mmm. And because I like you so much, I'm going to offer you a deal."

John let out a derisive sort. "Sorry, but I don't make deals with the devil."

Moriarty chuckled coldly. Getting to his feet, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. With a flick of his finger it was displaying video footage of a dark haired man lying in a concrete room, unmoving. "If you can get to him, you both leave and we don't bother you again. Well, not forever, but we won't bother you anytime soon. Fail and we go back to our game of cat and mouse. But we'll also poison the both of you. It'll be a slow acting poison, but it will be excruciating. You won't get the antidote unless Sherlock finds you. If he doesn't find you, then he gets the antidote. If you choose not to do it at all, we'll take his legs and leave him to finish the game. How he'll do that without his legs is up to him."

"Why?" John demanded.

"Because it's fun. And I'm so bored of being bored. So, what's your choice?" Moriarty began to circle John like a shark moving in for the kill.

John's lips were dry and he darted his tongue across them, he had to think it through. Of course, he couldn't say no, outright. He couldn't let them hurt Sherlock. But if he failed to find Sherlock, if they were poisoned, would it affect the baby? He stirred uncomfortably at the thought, his arms tightening around his stomach. Would it be worth it to lose his unborn child in order to save the man he loved? What would Sherlock tell him if he were here?

_Rational. Be rational. Think it through. Weigh the pros and cons. Which outcome is more beneficial?_

He had to compete in Moriarty's little game. That was a must. What he needed to know was the terms, the conditions. "How exactly am I going to find Sherlock?"

"A maze. Boring, I know, but I'll do my best to make it interesting for you."

A maze. They were easy enough, if you had a plan. Wasn't there something that was supposed to help you get around in mazes, some sort of mathematical formula or something? Then again it was for getting you _out_ of a maze, rather than finding someone in one. But it was his only choice. He had to hope he would find his way, or else he would die trying.

"I'll do it. I'll play your twisted little game."


End file.
